Drawing Life Out: Prose Poem

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Abstract

this time. Stuck in yellow light, the grey outside forming inside the eyes. Stuck to arhythmic orientation. <i>only there is none so beautiful as you.</i></p><p id="e80d">And he knows that all of this is only so much chiaroscuro — willing depth into the strokes that aren’t made — but the eyes take shape, the shading of the cheeks, the lips…<i>oh but there’s none so beautiful as you.</i></p><p id="6ebf">UNTIL — he is faced with only a mask, only a two-dimensional recording of a light that hit him — somewhere in this desert — like rain that wasn’t in the forecast but comes down anyway. <i>only there is none…</i></p><p id="e2d3">And all this life he thought he was breathing, it just stands still — stands stark against the yellowing oak of the table — face now covered — this outlet charged but not with sparks — or life — and just imagined, over and over — <i>there is no beautiful one.</i></p><p id="78c8"><a href="undefined">J.D. Harms</a> 2022</p><p id="c3ee"><i>*I began this piece about a month ago, reflecting on the Pygmalion and Galatea story. Knowing what I’ve already mentioned in what I call its companion piece (see “<a href="https://readmedium.com/carved-from-memory-prose-poem-d2531ce02f38">Carved from Memory</a>”)

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, I was struck with the idea that the story could be told with a woman as creator. That led me to the writing of the companion piece, reversing the roles. Here, however, I decided to see what happened if Pygmalion was simply drawing, rather than sculpting, his idea of a woman. In this piece, it seems that Pygmalion is really stuck in a shallow sense. How could anyone imbue a drawing (never mind a sculpture) with all the wonderful textures, nuance, struggles, and experience of a lived life? So much is truly beautiful if we’re willing to walk away from many of our prejudices.</i></p><p id="bad6"><b>Read the companion piece here:</b></p><div id="d305" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/carved-from-memory-prose-poem-d2531ce02f38"> <div> <div> <h2>Carved from Memory: Prose Poem</h2> <div><h3>Prompt response: liminal landscapes</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*-zpBdYRCwC_t1m132kAa_A.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Only there is none so beautiful as you

It takes hours to make a line — you know, a succession of single points superimposed by a thread. The fingers of his hand that are not coiled around a pencil, flex — as if they can urge the lead on, move the pencil in its divine task. only there is none so beautiful as you.

The image — stalled — held close and pushed into the table by the pure force of desire, coming to something like love, and the movements all brace themselves for the revelation. only there is none so beautiful as you.

Coffee holds its own appeal but grows cold as the shape refuses to form. He plays the Hallelujah — again — but listening this time. Stuck in yellow light, the grey outside forming inside the eyes. Stuck to arhythmic orientation. only there is none so beautiful as you.

And he knows that all of this is only so much chiaroscuro — willing depth into the strokes that aren’t made — but the eyes take shape, the shading of the cheeks, the lips…oh but there’s none so beautiful as you.

UNTIL — he is faced with only a mask, only a two-dimensional recording of a light that hit him — somewhere in this desert — like rain that wasn’t in the forecast but comes down anyway. only there is none…

And all this life he thought he was breathing, it just stands still — stands stark against the yellowing oak of the table — face now covered — this outlet charged but not with sparks — or life — and just imagined, over and over — there is no beautiful one.

*I began this piece about a month ago, reflecting on the Pygmalion and Galatea story. Knowing what I’ve already mentioned in what I call its companion piece (see “Carved from Memory”), I was struck with the idea that the story could be told with a woman as creator. That led me to the writing of the companion piece, reversing the roles. Here, however, I decided to see what happened if Pygmalion was simply drawing, rather than sculpting, his idea of a woman. In this piece, it seems that Pygmalion is really stuck in a shallow sense. How could anyone imbue a drawing (never mind a sculpture) with all the wonderful textures, nuance, struggles, and experience of a lived life? So much is truly beautiful if we’re willing to walk away from many of our prejudices.

Read the companion piece here: