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The Hunger Artist
Dawn rose with his breath, and took the ground,
slowly spread out like the shadow of some great bird.
The early morning air seemed almost palpable
throughout the ranging house. His sculptures in all
the drafty rooms (pieces to interest
anyone – a human miracle:
intricate women and turtle-men, strange birds, animal
emotions shaped in stone) were transliterations of his own desire
to write the perfect poem. No death fire
today. No exhausting nerves. He'd pull
his weight with the chores, of course, but he only half-heard
his wife in the kitchen: his desire
was to write. His body always burned, even at rest,
with the urge. He'd put to the test
his need, make an image out of something impossible.
So he sat under the lamp, turned on but dull
in comparison to the sun, a milky compound
of light inside the daylight which now fit the ground
like a glove and settled into corners like a bird
arranging itself in the nest.
Choosing the next right word
(the next right act), being responsible,
was supremely difficult, he found,
and necessary, required by God. Inconceivable
to live and not to write! He'd always said
the passion was a little like some great bird
always beside him in the bed,
in the car, even in the washroom, this impossible desire.
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