Auguste Rodin (1840-1917)
[Charcoal on Paper, 1898, Musée Rodin, Paris]

How flat the charcoal is
thumbed down and rolled into the paper
granting the instant its reality as ghost;
shoulders quickly hefted, brow
dedicated to its moment as I
weigh the left eye and cheek
into invisibility,
the other bright to grant the image
+++++++++– well –
its third dimension
as skin gives life
and tells us of our soul and plays
against the torture of each sinuous knot
in clay and bronze from clench of toe
to furrow in spine’s muscle,
the maddened beast
asking in vain for grace to quell its passion,
to die down to its dimensions of desire
and unfulfilled, becomes what
I can make it in its own image
out of the red earth and blood
and close it shut upon the infernal
miracle of how the fingers,
touching in the creative mind,
can climb into their grace
and leave a homage to the
pumping torso of existence
round the gates of hell.