9 thoughts on “Writing prompt 5: statue”

  1. An Artist’s Muse

    I don’t wanna put you in a quandary,
    I don’t want to lock you in a car,
    I just want to place you on a pedestal
    And praise you from afar.

    If someone snapped you in a photograph
    And placed that pic’ online,
    No-one could enhance it using Photoshop
    Because you’re absolutely fine.

    If a fellow with an easel
    Should make a portrait of your face,
    Then big galleries would scramble
    In a hostile bidding race.

    Your features are spectacular
    But no artist could improve ya,
    So without a doubt your likeness
    Would be hung inside The Louvre.

    If I should take a chisel
    My wrist would soon be sore,
    As I carved your head in marble
    So that your beauty might endure.

    If my energy was flagging
    Towards the middle of the week,
    I’d place one palm behind your neck
    And kiss you on the cheek.

    I’d use a pair of compasses
    To check on key dimensions.
    The Arts Council would endorse it,
    With very few abstentions.

    When that bust was finished
    Large crowds would congregate,
    There’d be a queue from Vauxhall Bridge
    To the turnstiles at The Tate.

    I don’t wanna put you in a quandary,
    Or even lock you in a car,
    I just want to place you on a pedestal
    And praise you from afar.

    © Copyright John Davison 2018.


    a cold stone stands
    monolith in a
    whitening wind
    a pictish whale
    breaching surface
    in his wintered field
    pointing fossilled
    a druid’s eyes to the
    pathways of the moon

  3. The Fool has no number

    You’ve walked the cushy walls,
    now stone honey barely holds
    one foot. Finally, you’ve reached
    an understanding with air.

    Stride is a word of daring, and in it
    you’ll find another element.
    Stretch is a word of longing.
    Your toes test the cool of miracles.

    In the small of your back,
    momentum and stop
    are jauntily locked.
    Fingers splay, chin tucks.
    The blue day nods, engulfs.

    In tarot, the Fool has no number
    though sometimes she’s assigned a zero.

  4. Dive in
    Kept in a tin trunk of memories so that
    It may not disappear like sand in an hour glass
    We left sediments of the past
    The caravans of skeletons,
    The geography of sorrow
    Nebulous scars, on the shore, with
    Timelessness stamped on them.
    We harvest coral, pearls,
    That swims above the surf, floating in the air
    but beyond reach of well-said prayers.
    The waves lashing on the rocks, that time has rounded
    scored with names of the dead
    in a life before this, the print of them
    still in the waves, foaming white
    Perhaps the waves can read our minds.

  5. Statues



    At the bottom of Pit lane
    Stands the statue that isn’t there,
    Glorious in its grace and dignity.

    A catch of men coming off shift,
    Sunlight piercing their helmets,
    Pickaxes and tired faces.
    All sculpted from black coal,
    Bits of brass and coal dust.

    In Spring, buttercups shine their steel toe-caps.
    In Winter, snow warms their cold shoulders.
    In any time, they forge their own strong
    and living presence.

    ©2020 Gwen Grant.

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