Art Musings: What’s the Best Kind of Art?
The universal language of jazz, with healing in every riff.
One listens, absorbs, worships; contemplating life’s
what-ifs.
A globule of oil, smudged or smeared, shaped into a lily,
Subtle strokes, airy blue hues, I wonder at such reality.
Translucent watercolor bleeds slightly over a boundary of
pencil,
Underpinning the delicate pigment, lines serve as stencil.
Gelatin-silver, contrasting black & white images reflect
off of shiny puddles, dotted with raindrops,
The suit, jumping shadows, almost purple-black, at one
moment the shutter stops.
Rusting iron soldered at incongruent joints, splayed upon St.
Augustine fields, baking in the sun.
Industrial art coexists with the elements, size and shape
imbalanced, abstract, gargantuan.
Splattered, sprayed, sprinkled paint, explodes over a
gigantic canvas,
Pollock expressed his colors wildly, understood by few of
us.
Cerise mud, spun, fired, glowing in the furnace, glazed,
painted, and shaped, still copper-red like the earth, The potter’s hands held the clay for what seemed a
generation, gently letting it whirl away like a child growing up.
Words can seem scrambled, but go higher and deeper than any
of the art you see or I saw,
I’ve read twice the number for pleasure, than I ever studied
at law.
They spark with creativity, discussing many forms of art,
These media mentioned move me, but don’t go as deep into my
heart.
Words bless, or harm, inform, enlighten with a mysterious
power; but they can’t be taken back,
Sharp as a cutlass, pointed as a sword, plunged into flesh
whether launched from defense or attack.
Comprehension or translation are lost on a wispy breath of
the wind:
“Certains l'aiment chaud” they say, or
“I don’t know what
you’re talking about?”
Can you tell me that again?
Formed together in poetry, words escape the prison of
definition;
Sometimes they flutter and sparkle in the dark, fireflies of
cognition.
Do they bounce, echo, drift like shadow, lying through their
teeth,
Poetry flows to the ocean of truth by the river of deceit.
Visual art as described above, takes the mavens to
different places,
Fascination, imitation, contemplation; you can see it in
their faces.
Reading a paragraph so skillfully crafted, its
contention ringing true in my ears,
“Listen to this,” I’ll say, reading it aloud, truth’s
reverberation bringing me to tears.
Pages layered into plot as rings inside a tree, hardened
bark covers the story;
A book opens a thousand doorways, using myth, truth, and
allegory.
“I am an invisible man, called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and
it was the worst of times,”
These snippets remind me of some of literature’s best opening
lines.
Active, alive, and useful as a lamp unto my feet, the Bible.
I smell it like warm bread, knowing there is nourishment
when I eat.
That place in my heart where the stockings are hung.
Warm, encouraging words are there; reading it I feel accepted, some call it
“home.”
Opening this ancient text is, “Sursum Corda” meaning to uplift,
Dr. Luke's words tell of Christmas, and the most important gift.
Expounding more is wasting time, the art speaks for itself;
I will always look to get mine, from the dusty book shelf.
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Poetry 2016©Mark H. Pillsbury
