The Handmade Poem
Because I am no poet
this ode shall be sculpted
with handmade paper and malachite
and when the papyrus will fossilize
its lyrics shall be chiseled in 3D.
The drummed hammering
shall be its melody
with the notes cleaved
and for the rustling sound
use the flow of myriad marble dust.
And if the stanzas won’t hum right
they’ll be shattered chipped off
scraped instead of crumpled.
Well, all this visual
and aural circumlocution
is only in my mind because
there’s no more than a soft tap
when the apex of my finger
glides on the keyboard of the PC.
Sigh!
But maybe,
just maybe,
instead of sculpting
I should paint this poem
on handmade paper
in the way of Hiroshige or Mi Fei
who thinned down black ink
suiting it to necessary transparency
distinguishing
the astigmatic background
from the myopic forefront.
And for good measure
I shall sculpt this poem
in French and intersperse it
with a bit of Slav
like here and there
a da and a couple of niet
since most readers would know
those crucial words.
Then I shall sit in a lotus stanza
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poem by Alex Nodopaka
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