The Boy With The Thorn - a Bronze

At the Getty Museum there was an excellent exhibition of ancient bronzes, all stunning. Amongst the athletes and the gods there was this exquisite piece. It ached for a poem.

Spinario

The Boy With A Thorn

There are not many of them now,

Though vacant plinths abound,

Amongst the great antiquities

Where often they were found,

Depicting famous athletes

Who earned laurels at the games,

Or gods and heros, caesars, kings

With long impressive names.

The artisans who made them

Of copper mixed with tin,

Could flow the molten alloy round

So it was light and thin,

Yet strong enough to bear the weight

Of arms and legs in stride,

And at their best they long remain

The Greco-Roman pride.

Each one a distillation

Of God’s gifts manifest,

Capturing that inspiration-

Firing them to do their best,

Preserving for these ages long,

Should plunderers have missed their mark,

A glimpse of era’s far advance

That would but otherwise be dark.

There he sits, a boy absorbed,

Intent to find the sole-lodged thorn,

Cast in bronze he heeds us not

’Till from his foot the barb is drawn.

Head downward cast his gaze is firm,

Fingers set to pry the spine,

His youthfulness forever caught,

Never dulled with passing time.

Thin their ranks of beauty cast

Despoiled by barbarous lowly eye,

How could they dash and splinter thus 

The richest proof of days gone by.

How could the call of cannon or gate

Result in smelting of these forms

Yet this remaining tells so much

And history’s pages thus adorns