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Matthew Griffiths
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The Interview
Today’s great sculptor chips a word
from silence. And it clatters.
She opens dusty air my question stirred.
She fills its space now as I listen,
as syllables drop round steel-toed boots,
her mallet kissing chisel kissing
stone, to take it out from under
forms that hang like heavy acrobats
off each other. Then words have stunned her –
but my dictaphone takes her voiced
thoughts to its heart, its spool gets fatter,
magnetised with weighty noise.
Geology dusts her face. I see
her grained fingertips swipe
a line along her lips, down through one eye,
letting the colour show.
It breaks the moment’s mask,
makes her a pierrot.
I hear the trucks begin to collect
whole conversations of her offcasts
while the spool rolls on, towards Select-
ed Recollections of a Great Sculptor.
How I’ll decipher, when I come to type,
her chunky commentary on culture
from all the noise dust, I cannot know.
But I’ll make words tell what her figures show.
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