Another ekphrastic poem, this one addressed to
The Woodcutter by Kazimir Malevich:
<u>To Malevich's Woodcutter</u>
Wielder of axe, cleaver of branch and trunk,
your solid legs astride a chopped down tree,
sectioning wholeness, clearheaded as a monk
who flails his soul towards austerity,
you want the canvas of your world made light,
to break it down to logs of understanding
that, in your mind, can be the more commanding
for having suffered through your thudding blight.
Yet, with each slice you seem to be approaching
a place where neither branch nor trunk remains,
so log by log you're gradually encroaching
the forest's edge -- you're cutting near your veins.
The more you hack the more you'll turn to tubes,
which Malevich will splinter into cubes.