Saturday, August 27, 2005

Here's a poem: I was really into painting in the summer of 1965, and wrote this while working on an abstract painting called "Sleep".


How can one express the inexpressible
or picture something without form;
define with lines the essense of elusiveness?

The art has not been born
where paint can show the shape desires take
nor colors indicate a glow of pleasure;

Perspective on a canvas does not reach
where my imagination stretches;

Pure white is not as light as thoughts that soar in air
nor ebony as dark as feelings plunged in black despair.

But lack of hues precisely true
has not kept man from trying all his life
to fathom mystery with a brush, and thus,
a mortal canvas often has been touched by immortality
and stained with pigments that the soul alone can see
as tones the artist felt, when by approximation,
he gave vent to inspiration;

Mere tints suggest and hint at ecstasy
and knowledge beyond pedantry.

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