I may be Art
in the way that he was, she was
in the way that you,
most certainly, are –
in its truest form…
in its own brilliance,
a sun that blazes away
the yellowy shadows
and the unnecessary haze
of each new day.

I may be Art
spoken aloud in a bustling room
above the clank
of coffee cups
picked up and set back down
on wooden tables -
echoed in each scrape-sound
of every chair
as it’s drawn up closer
to this new stage.

I may be Art
that exists alone, for its own self
having found the virtue
of residing there
on the page, inside a drawer
of the small chest –
within which beats a heart
that grows with every word
laid down, timidly
by a new sage.

I may be Art
not just the end state creation of it
nor the beautifully endless
process of it
but by the natural existence
of a self
now too large to ever
be fully captured
and as yet unrevealed
in some new play

I may be Art
but am not the artist
nor the representation -
that partial truth
that bled out onto the page -
I am rather (perhaps)
an artful essence
only ever partly reigned
regardless of enumerable attempts
on countless new days

I may be Art
created not for itself
but existing regardless
to be seen, understood
by the one consummate reader
that doesn’t need the words -
the one that hears
what’s never fully conveyed,
the one that reads me
In a new and different way.

Yes -
I may be Art…

but if I am –
I am only…

for you.


[comments] => 19 [counter] => 493 [topic] => 69 [informant] => Silent-No-More [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 40 [ratings] => 8 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => poets )

Art (For An Audience Of One) Contributed by Silent-No-More on Monday, 10th July 2006 @ 07:52:12 AM in AEST Topic: poets I may be Art in the way that he was, she was in the way that you, most certainly, are – in its truest form… in its own brilliance, a sun that blazes away the yellowy shadows and the unnecessary haze of each new day. I may be Art spoken aloud in a bustling room above the clank of coffee cups picked up and set back down on wooden tables - echoed in each scrape-sound of every chair as it’s drawn up closer to this new stage. I may be Art that exists alone, for its own self having found the virtue of residing there on the page, inside a drawer of the small chest – within which beats a heart that grows with every word laid down, timidly by a new sage. I may be Art not just the end state creation of it nor the beautifully endless process of it but by the natural existence of a self now too large to ever be fully captured and as yet unrevealed in some new play I may be Art but am not the artist nor the representation - that partial truth that bled out onto the page - I am rather (perhaps) an artful essence only ever partly reigned regardless of enumerable attempts on countless new days I may be Art created not for itself but existing regardless to be seen, understood by the one consummate reader that doesn’t need the words - the one that hears what’s never fully conveyed, the one that reads me In a new and different way. Yes - I may be Art… but if I am – I am only… for you. Copyright © Silent-No-More ... [ 2006-07-10 07:52:12] (Date/Time posted on site) Advertisments: Previous Posted Poem         | |         Next Posted Poem