Tuesday, November 30
Synopsis of a Ramble
Like something once a vine
twisted, battered, into wrought iron:
the sculptor chipping away at unhewn stone
ignores the resistences of rock...
When all is said and done what is this action?
Lazily, on this afternoon, chancing upon a rhythm,
of gazes, dancing with motes-in-a-sunbeam; thoughts of
'When all is said and done,
why this simply verbose arrogance?'
Beauty exists in a forest that this Art seeks to freeze,
thaw into Creation ...
an isolated growth is
laughing, fleeing, Beauty.
Displacement is not necessary,
to truly discover objectivity
takes the subjective key.
Can you empty images-in-the-air with a purity of word?
Disturb the motes,
their indifferent swirl the very shape of invisible;
justify this unexpected yearning toward a certain silence,
unlock with the eyes,
before the mind
something so very like the unselfconscious vine?