Surely, as poetry is art,
all art is poetry.
Sculptors take chisels to stone,
fingers to clay, mobilising
both lobes as they strive to describe
the depth, the expanse of
a moment, an emotion; the core
that glows beneath the folds. Some
chip fragrant flakes from seasoned oak
until its hills and plains
mirror the original. They shave and sand,
blowing away the chaff, seeking
to make fake flesh
speak, since oaken eyes
tell no secrets.
I write poetry,
crossing the lines,
scribing codes in the gaps,
forever frisking my id for empathic bracket.
Like archaeologists scratching
for the missing link, I scrabble
to unearth the divine simile,
the kicking metaphor which fits
neatly between two ribs.
Ragging the rug that muffles distress,
coaxing discrete hues to connect,
I raise splintered tools, wincing
as they graze old skin,
then, dipping historic nibs into new ink
I sketch bleached bones, blood, beauty
and scraps of truth
in half-baked quest
the elusive absolute.
©Jane Paterson Basil