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Muse
Contributed by
leondryver
on
Thursday, 8th September 2011 @ 09:21:25 PM in AEST
Topic:
obsession
|
I want to paint, with words
My pallet daubed with rich emotion,
views and experience swirled with
thoughts and feelings, Mixed subtle phrases
A hint of suggested places, of magical light and rich darkness.
with the majestic mass of colour erupting from inspiration.
My muse, with features so fine, mysterious, sublime.
To capture the passion white with an intensity no prism could split
that almost masks quiet little corners, the shadowed home of doubt
the place where its cold and we forget to look out. It’s there I want to work
to blanket the oppressive with layers of life, a symphony of colour,
So overwhelming the smile isn’t seen, so exposed and involved that the pooling tears flow free.
At once silent and deafening, the frozen heat of feeling
lost, lost in the place that is home.
There is no dark, no, no colour nor light but love.
Tis not the paint nor the canvas and the artist but a vessel
it is the brush strokes, the caress of the colour over white rough canvas
where the smooth fluid paint grows character, the butterfly the landscape,
the crushing power of an ocean in that moment born.
The pirouette of the dancer captured in his eye. We watch and participate in our mind
feeling the spray of the sea, the flutter of wings or the warmth of the setting sun.
That is where we live, with our view of this life, this artistry of existence
Our gallery, our experiences hung on walls to see.
The framed images stir in us the pain and sorrow. The laughter and love.
A never ending hall hung with a lifetime and yet space for so much more.
These windows to a life lived through, so many places and times
and as we wander through, the stitch that binds all this magic is you.
A muse, my muse? A key to a lock, where there was no door
where the walls were so thick. With no in, out, up or down
and yet where the chisel chipped and the hammer hit,,, form.
Not the stock or the tools but the contoured shape
growing like a seed as if from the cold lifeless stone.
So is the art always there, in the stone or canvas, waiting.
Waiting for the time, the time to meet, for the key, to be free.
The current of this bounding river, turbulent and wild, set loose by a dam flung open wide.
Of thoughts and feelings once lost or unknown,
swept up in a force violent and new.
Of the perfect storm whipped up by you.
My mind’s eye sings and the the melody goes on
as the sun sets on this most beautiful song
I sit and gaze at what my muse has done.
Copyright ©
leondryver
... [
2011-09-08 21:21:25]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Muse
(User Rating: 1 )
by Deidra_Carmichael on
Friday, 9th September 2011 @ 06:31:29 PM AEST
(User
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a Message)
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Exceptional! Altogether exceptional is your painting of words. The poet lives for experiences and his or her response to such experiences. Tis why literature is such a rewarding skill; it continues and relates to others so they realize they are not alone in their thinking. God bless you and may you keep writing beautiful poetry,
Deidra |
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