Man was able to exert and sometimes enforce his will upon nature, but he could do nothing to ensure the hunter’s success. The capture, it seemed, depended upon something beyond the scope of work or technique, upon some other world whence man was shut out at least while working, while imbued with the notions and rhythms of logical efficacity.
–GEORGES BATAILLE
The cave paintings at Lascaux
are unnecessarily beautiful,
though perhaps magic, to enjoin,
makes beauty a necessity.
But since magic resides in the act itself,
in the expropriation of the moment,
we must imagine the hunters rising at dawn
and walking into the earth.
Each carries, in a stone vessel,
a single color, gift of the sun,
beaten from root or berry.
Perhaps they’ve fasted and kept silent
and sat naked under the stars;
and now, their dreams preceding them,
maybe chanting to prepare their hearts,
they walk deep into the cave
and gather in the torch-flickered, glittering gallery
where each, in turn, will be lifted,
risen to appease
the strength and elegance of his prey,
to touch his fear, his hunger, his heart,
to know, as the hand does not hesitate
in the sweep of the bison’s horn,
that magic requires nothing,
it’s like stone,
and the beauty
called through our bodies
remains in our bones.