Poems Inspired by Ronald Rae's Sculptures
Choosing a Drawing
"I keep several hundred in a friend’s attic,
some so depressing you couldn’t face
living with them. Your best tactic
is to avoid preconceptions, then choose
whatever speaks most strongly to you."
In charcoal whorls, an elephant and hippo,
baggy bulk conveyed by gradations of light
And shade; portfolios on biblical themes;
A series of Grassmarket down-and outs
drawn long before this became the fashion –
ghosted features left to the imagination.
At last I choose essence of sheep. Head down,
grey streaks scoring the flanks, a pink blur
across its back the only presence of colour,
it captures the ambivalence of nature:
one moment a celebratory leap into the spring air;
the next, the world’s weight, down-tug of gravity.
At the mercy of irreconcilables, I marvel
how in pen and ink or granite, he can impose
such order; through controlled frenzy, convey
the terror, and tenderness, of his inner eye.
Stewart Conn - Bloodaxe Books 1995
Ronald Rae – Sculptor of Granite
skilled with hand-tools you cut and hone
intrigued by local stone - a snare
feldspar granite - igneous stone
sunlit abyssal-quartz light pink stone
a stone fly’s wings shift flit and flare
adroit - with skill you cut and hone
mallet and chisels shape flesh and bone
place landmine victim’s lost void stare
feldspar granite - unyielding stone
widow woman pensive alone
wrinkles reflect sacrifice and care
life portrayed - determined you carve and hone
compelled to sculpt your fame is known
the dying elephant’s sigh we share
in feldspar granite - hard hard stone
crystal rocks from volcanoes thrown
now - boy with calf - horse - and wild bear
genius with tools you shape and hone
feldspar granite - the hardest stone
Laura White - Bumblebee Press 2001
LION OF SCOTLAND
Its supple marriage of muscularity and grace
first envisaged at Tillyfourie Quarry
where the workers believed they could trace
an imprint in a block of Corrennie granite,
this 20-tonne stone transported to Cramond
and worked on for over a year: the sculptor
inspired as never before – detecting a gift
from the gods, the culmination of his career.
Now regal brow and mane, curved
flank, rippling haunch and great paw
are invested by hammer and chisel
with the spirit and dignity of lion.
Symbolic energy source, its roseate
stippling vibrant in sun or rain, how fit
to our new Parliament – looking out
on Arthur's Seat, that other lion couchant.
Stewart Conn - Poet Laureate Edinburgh 2002–2005
THE LION'S RETURN TO HOLYROOD
Hey big man, whit's yer gemme?
Loupin intae Holyrood, snugglin doon
wi yer flowin mane aa curled.
Lik ye aye bidit here?
Ye're granite set no volcanic lava
but the dormant hump o Arthur's Seat
the verra double o yer- rump.
Lion o Scotlan ye're back oan side noo-
whit a camsteerie stramash.
Twenty ton'll no be easy shiftit.
Oan yersel big yin, lat oot a roar,
ye'll rouse the whaill leevin warl.
For noo ye're restin soond
weill come hame, beast o hert an saul
King o strength an peace.
Dr Donald Smith – Director of the Scottish Story Telling Centre
A LION, LYING
The Lion of Scotland lies
beneath Salisbury Crags,
its Corrennie pelt ruffled
with symbolism.
Has time tamed it to a domestic tabby
whose petulant yams –
the politicians’ “I am”s –
make a mockery of a hundred men?
Twenty tons of granite sits unblinking,
letting you make up your own mind.
Rowena M Love
STONE VOICES
These stones will shout aloud,
More than pious sermons
or mute mumbles of apology.
Their voices cry with protest
at partitioned poverty and pain.
They groan with grief at solitude and loss,
and from the chisel strokes of steel on stone
they ring with resonance of hope
and love revealed.
Even as we remain silent,
these stones will shout aloud.
Jim Hughes
GOLGOTHA
Her head shelters under the bridge
of a concrete arm. Lower limbs
crushed in silent squat
as if
the simple act of standing
would push up the sky
and make the stars fall in
to drown in our oceans.
As if
the simple act of standing
would colour the world
grey with lack.
As if
all she needs is my touch.
My blessing.
Michael Malone
HORSE
Set free from grained granite to nuzzle
roughness of ancient rock into a soft
cheek resting on his own long spine,
in that warm hollow where man would
throw a saddle. He curves around
his heart space, the same space
I long for, to be held, absorbed
into grey granite beating. Feel lungs
expanding from stone, breathing
his breath, he breathing mine.
There can be no standing back,
no distancing myself to take in
his beauty. For I have always been
with him, running the Great Plains,
resting in the high holy places
of our earth, drawn for all time
on the soot and ochre walls
of the caves of Lascaux. Remembering
exploded stars. Remembering
everything.
Sheila Templeton
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