The Smoke Sculptor
By Zechariah Blaire • May 16th, 2008 • Category: Issue 3, PoetryThe Smoke Sculptor
The smoke sculptor achieved great fame
for his works of airborne ash,
which billowed up from a tropical volcano
through the maestro’s fluttering arms.
From his blackened hands emerged cityscapes
of Manhattan, New York, Paris,
or portraits of gray-faced patrons,
even a scaled solar system with spinning spheres
circling a sooty sun.
All these appeared for a moment
and then wafted into the sky.
The smoke sculptor’s fame brought him wealth,
which he spent freely and without guilt.
He bought sports cars and drove them but a week;
his clothes were woven of fine mist;
and he lived in a melting mansion of ice.
The smoke sculptor’s fame brought him fans,
who would seek him out for an autograph.
He would oblige them,
and, at kelp-strewn low tide,
he would walk to the edge of the surf,
where he’d stick his finger into the slate of sand
and trace out his name for posterity.
Zechariah Blaire is a sheep who's so glad he has a Shepherd. His wife is a better woman than he deserves. He has been writing – a lot – for ten years and only recently begun getting published.
He's an anglophile and loves Graham Greene, T.S. Eliot, W.H. Auden, G.K. Chesterton, Evelyn Waugh, and of course C.S. Lewis.
He's a lawyer, who thoroughly enjoyed going to law school, but strongly cautions anyone considering doing the same.
He'd love to find some writers to workshop with.
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I’ve read your other poems, but I don’t know if I really remember any of them. This one will stay with me. The imagery is vivid and wonderfully married to the theme.