Twelve 'o clock afternoon,
On a hot languorous Sunday
The nymph trembled under the
Deft strokes of the artist's chisel
The artist yawned and stretched
Waiting for the wife's lunch call
The finish of half-formed symmetry
Was irritating and hurtful to the eyes
The nymph cursed the sculptor
For her helpless inert woodenness
He was to blame for her half-formed state
God, where had he begun and now
Behold the crazy rebellious asymmetry
The absurdity of unspeaking formlessness and
The grotesqueness of the underlying ideation.
It was a different she that had taken birth
In the anarchic aggregation of the artist's mind
The wood is so weedy, the mind so meandering.
These frequent changes are so much traumatizing
(How she wished the artist followed a structure)
And then these recurrent paralyzing creative blocks
When everything changed so elementally
And the wayward artist began afresh each time
After mind-blowing, cataclysmic changes.
The artist has no right to tinker with her soul
He had changed her form for the umpteenth time
The artist's freedom violated her own, she thought.
And then he returned after his post-lunch siesta
The nymph melted under his delicate touch
Once again submitting to his artful manipulations.