these words are the problem
this line and this phrase
and this
this
here
ev-er-y-syl-la-ble
muddies the study
but what is a poem with no hum
or hem or thread to hold
the tune or rhyme
the rhythm and time
that we’d rather not see
but must be freely
seen as the stroke of a brush
if spoken a gust leaving trails in the dust
and intractable rust
she bristles coarse of course
any more than a breeze whistles
round details less fine
than a horse’s sheen shine
but a warmth bleeds through coat
after coat after brush coursing stroke
softens in the palm
a critic will know the angle and curve
a critic can taste each specific herb
a critic may curb in the moment the urge
to critique every visible line
but in the mystique behind each quiet critique
a trueness lingers still
a novice like me has no hope to see
the details that busy a pro
I have no chance to know
the details don’t show
each piece of real art
goes narrow goes broad
the details and whole
speak each share a role
hold something for each to laud
though no connoisseur I feel I am sure
that I know something real
true art’s not exclusive
nor beauty elusive
for those with eyes that will see
I once knew a girl
no longer I suppose
whose beauty was finer than mine eyes could divine
for I could only appreciate
too late for my fate
though I knew from beginning to end
sure she had blemish and spot
that taught fought and thought
upon imperfections of my own
an impurity of judgement
my fault all alone
to compare only what I ought not
what could avail when not for sale
her all of her clumsily unhinges the scale
for to compare without right
and to measure the height of love
of her beauty could never hold fair
but I thought it might be
my share to be free and to see
if another excelled where she
could be perceived to be lacking
little did I conceive that I was attacking
and undermining the essence of beauty
by dissecting each detail and all
entailed in the glory of who she was
by critiquing each stroke showing a
hitch of the hand I compartmentalized
the good and the bad
the bad just got worse the good more terse
until I lost all sense of the
worth of her verse
in the halls of a museum with no
art education I find my ambling
arrested and motion held captive by
a painting surprisingly earnest
I stare into depths transcending the
steps made visible in the work
inside something more held for the
poor of intellect the uneducated
still belongs where he stands adoring
the magnitude of art
I too have read poems
amongst many poems
that break through the dissonant mess
and cause one to stop
reread from the top to the bottom
and to breathe slow and breathe less
and to close one’s eyes
and to try to apprize the worth
of what cannot be fathomed
friend that is art
friend that is beauty
hardly perceived by the ears or the eyes
a song so deeply profound that the sound
a painting so rich that a colorful mist
a woman so fine that the nature of time
bend and contort and nurture your heart
to swell and grow to its preordained size
when confronted with this
for confront it shall
for what else can beauty do to one so common
when confronted with this
I feel just how frail
I am and it’s a foreboding omen
I have lost it each time
its presence is fleeting
it will not stay mine
I won’t stoop to pleading
but the fact that I’ve seen it
the fact that she shared
this blessing with one so mean is
unworthily compared
art may arrest us and force us to pause
beauty will catch our breath and cause
us to linger and figure this may be our last
a chance to dwell past the fences of life
for beauty will not succumb to the ravages
of time or wear or over-analysis
God bless the beauty for God blessed the beauty
and God blesses me with eyes to see