Le Penseur

Le Penseur

Merci, M'sieur Rodin!
for you extruded from a faceless blob
the naked sinews of a man
who in his abject solitude
embraced a galaxy of mind
that sings creation,
nude of all but truth and purity
conmingled in the kiln's holistic fire.

From such prolific pondering,
he shares with us one absolute—
reality originates
not from an alter image floating
in long robes beyond the skies;
his gaze is downward, cast away
from reaching fingertips, away
from dancing sprites who will persist
in worshiping the dawn.

His shoulders bear no triumph,
neither promise of reward
for lack of pretense; there they crouch
with not a single argument for victory
or sacrifice—Dante in seclusion
at the gates of hell,
and silently to tell of paradise
that is the intellect alone.

It is no wonder that we tremble
as we stand before him,
for we may not shy away.
No less than all that is
between, beyond
the hours of our imagining
lies there among the racing quanta
of his thoughts and our despair.

Je vous en prie M'sieur.
Tiens pitie!
~