Sculpting the Original Life is True Greatness

I cried as I felt inspired about Szukalski, the unknown Polish sculpture who was assessed as one of humanity’s greats, equivalent to Michelangelo.  He lived in poverty, spoke his mind and definitely did not suffer fool’s.  I noted as I watched Net flicks that those around him may not have understood him.  I sensed this with Jews.  They noted he was a nationalist and he made critiques about Jews dominating others.  But it was clear he did not approve of the Holocaust.  I gained the impression that he reflected the times truthfully based on the information at hand, he was not sensitive to the others he critiqued but said it how he saw it.  He was a completely original thinker and debunked education as distorting the natural brilliance and suppressing the imagination of people.  I felt myself crying as I felt him see into the reality of humanity.  Those who are freed from social norms, behaviours, attitudes that are accepted are often viewed as strange or weird or humoured.  My mind is always open to people.  I do not seek to box them into my reality but I celebrate that diversity as an expansion of consciousness.  I see this as the real frontier that inspires greatness.  I believe greatness is natural.  The limiting of this is the limiting of our selves as we have mistakenly sought greatness in all the wrong places.  That is why we are unhappy.

This is my poem inspired by Szukalski.  I wonder how many greats are in the suburbs left alone and ignored as greatness is seen as profit not purpose.   He spoke of the cultural Siberia of America. Apparently all his great works were lost in the bombing of Poland by the Nazi’s.  He says if you want to create new things in this world never listen to anybody. I would agree, so many are naysayers and what I find is that their thinking is limited to programmed scripts that have no sense of colour, grace or poetry (my language).


Sculpting the Original Life is True Greatness


The greatest artist,

Is not known,

s/he is the face of the feminine,

the muscle of the masculine,

uniting in sculptures that flow in search of grace,

that twist and turn defying gravity,

pushing beyond the boundaries of the thinking mind,

for art is perspective,

art is boundless,

art is freedom transcending what is framed to feel for infinity,

in truth.


I meet Szukalski in my heart for the first time,

The tears are rivulets leaving deep impressions as I seek release to see,

Imagination is not a business plan or pop art culture icon,

Visualisation of every detail does not await incoming data to inform,

It in-forms around data defining what is real from what is unreal,

Surrealism is reality etched in multiple dimensions truth realising infinite possibility,

The inner eye sees first to create what will be seen as a kite soars,

Rotating without graphics in the minds eye until it feels right, so raw,

This is creation inventing original thought,

Original thought inventing creation,

Feeling every curve, groove and notch with an intimate touch,

Every expression is perfection as art originates sur-real life,

Emotions are trace elements fusing the unseen feeling,

As God meets Adam symbolising god’s gifts received,

As above so below,

For only the God’s are crazy to those with no culture or humanity present,

For they have never felt the sanity of freedom’s caress in the moment,

They see the axe not the symbol of courage memorialised in a stance,

That remembers never a war cry but the cry of ecstatic inspiration as the union,

Divinity merging creativity to recreate the human heart in its own image,

That is formless,


Cage less,

A shape changer with no education or conformity

As veils of superficial knowledge distort nature’s call to alms,

Obedient to unbridled originality,

Allied to individual uniqueness piquing,

Spiralling unity within diversity expanding,

As diversity re-members unity beyond geometric blueprints,

Speaking without tongues recovers the one language linking all hands and hearts,

As higher glyphics are the harmonic resonances transmitted from Easter Island,

Etched in statues of liberty standing in a row beyond time and space,

Patiently awaiting the arrival of the sun God’s,

For he travelled to the centre of the universe and found the origin,

Reconciling the opposites is to hear the one song playing,

For this is the language of the soul that unites

as it cannot divide what was inalienable.


Truth needs no words to be heard,

Truth requires no big picture to be seen,

Truth arises in feeling the language of the soul,

For every culture in the world is the one soul singing beyond control frequencies,

For when you listen deeply to see yourself in others,

You will find the shape and form in-forms a new cultural story,

As it is seen and then created out of the ashes of self destruction.


The heartless are carelessly reaching for control not creativity as they dig deeper holes,

For these are not ecosystems but feedback loops,

Their black hands are the evidence of tunnel vision,

Their black masks hide their true face in the shadows of secrecy,

Their black eyes cannot see the rainbow bridge of hope’s promise,

For they force the world to shape change into their structured image without mercy,

Nazism destroys the artistic impulse as it is not in compliance with what is Reich or white,

Fascism is the black fist that smashes all opposition as insects,

So intolerance can no longer see what it is not,

Colour blindness sees only black or white,

Black is the negative space of emptiness digging,

White is imagined purity drained of all colours,

Identity clings fervently onto what is believed and then seen,

Perception informs perspective unable to see all angles,

For security is the fortress not the deep caress touching the heart of stone,

For to carve the angel out of the marble one must be able to see the angel in what is hard,

For the philosophers’ stone shape changes what is hard into the wisdom of dream keepers,

Sleepers awaken in the secret garden of  Geth·semʹa·ne visited by angels,

Where one is crucified by fear or resurrected by love,

The horns over the heart contrast life dancing with the devil or shining the Christ light,

To remember there is no devil only the light reflecting Who You Are and Who You Become,

For only in opposites can you know yourself and be true,

For each must choose the chisel or gavel to reveal the truth as justice.


This is one of my poems I just saw which connects to this.





Mohandas Gandhi

“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”