| |
1.
Muted color translates into quiet sound,
or the roundness of planets and moons
that dwell here, around us, in obvious places.
The room is demure, the walls are settled,
memory opens to be placed and used.
A bowl and its contents can be easily seen,
while an easel is the flat camera of daubed worlds.
Brush in hand, he recalls the idea of scenes.
2.
Sitting, like a prolonged reaction to summer,
fresh fruit possesses a hue, a human hue -
if one partakes of one, in his mind, too, it is good.
Children of a harvest, children of trees, we dine;
this is fruit for the taking, the bright possession;
ocher of the moment is arresting ocher,
yet it was never alive, it was always wax,
a small, delicate museum, turned in on itself.
3.
The artist knows stillness is beautiful.
Then stillness brings a fullness, a lush swelling of cells.
It is like a harmonica, an even note.
He likens it to a glimmer, freshly blown glass.
He sees the 'truth' of art, a dazzling artifice;
he sees the depth of original, twilight skies.
He knows that what is real is buffered by its form -
no form? no fruit, no color, no signals of the soul.
4.
Coolness can surge, not just as a form of heat.
This is cool and picturesque, beyond an ease of things.
He is calmer than a lonely kitchen table
in the late time of the long, hot season,
where, within his cocoon comes inspiration.
He loves the fruit and will comment on its sweetness,
believing its model to be the last comment.
He, too, sits still; a still life capturing another;
they both are caged: line, man and background.
Lamont Palmer
|
|
User Rating: |
|
9.0
/10
(9 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend