poetry critical

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Sculpture Room

They have been brought here
to discover third dimensions.
What they lack can be found round the back,
where a profound sense of aesthetic tension parades
among discarded plaster, metal scraps and clay.
Horse hair waves from a cardboard face,
orchid stem poked through a disused lens,
hen feathers stuck to wooden wings,
paper mache skull averts its gaze
from so many lumpen things.
Most drift back to 2-D,
re-familiarise with seamless routines.
Tight impositions of time are what they crave,
while those who stay become half crazed,
unable to raise not one finished piece
as they hover, torn between dimensions of angles
that stand among tangled armatures,  
trying to coax the insubstantial towards solid form.

1 May 09

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larry the junkyard poet lark.
I declare that title with great respect.  Your poetry is what postmodernist scrap metal sculpture is to a Renaissance gallery.  Defiant.  Starving.  Some what heroic.
Have you published a collection or two by now?  I should hope so, you have more than enough to offer.
 — aurelius

You are an arsh flatterer aurelius and if i could begin to tell you how much your comment means to me i would, but i can't, so there.

Larry hiding in the lilac bushes fearful of decay Lark
 — larrylark