Brooding and paint-spattered I sweep my brush
across a wide expanse of emptiness.
No horizon beckons me, only imagination,
broad in its scope, hungry for a new beginning.
My welling anger recalls another time like this.
In frenzied swirls my harnessed energy sought
perfection, fulfilment, in the laboured task, yet
ended on a sorrowing note of bleak depression.
Perhaps there is a sublime moment in the art when,
somewhere between brushed paints and surface,
a deeper truth is revealed - an insight into soul and mind
seldom glimpsed and even then rarely understood.
I do not question the nature of these things, or bitterly
inveigh against whatever hidden power is at work,
but sometimes a weight hangs so heavy in my mind
I lose my will and stand in slumped depression.
Brush hardens. Paint dries. Surface half yields the plan.
Always I rally and complete the task while dreams
of Monet and his flowered fields return to lift me again
and I unpack a new can of Brilliant White Emulsion.
A poet friend of mine wrote this poem,which he called "momentarily Monet."
I thought you would enjoy it John.
across a wide expanse of emptiness.
No horizon beckons me, only imagination,
broad in its scope, hungry for a new beginning.
My welling anger recalls another time like this.
In frenzied swirls my harnessed energy sought
perfection, fulfilment, in the laboured task, yet
ended on a sorrowing note of bleak depression.
Perhaps there is a sublime moment in the art when,
somewhere between brushed paints and surface,
a deeper truth is revealed - an insight into soul and mind
seldom glimpsed and even then rarely understood.
I do not question the nature of these things, or bitterly
inveigh against whatever hidden power is at work,
but sometimes a weight hangs so heavy in my mind
I lose my will and stand in slumped depression.
Brush hardens. Paint dries. Surface half yields the plan.
Always I rally and complete the task while dreams
of Monet and his flowered fields return to lift me again
and I unpack a new can of Brilliant White Emulsion.
A poet friend of mine wrote this poem,which he called "momentarily Monet."
I thought you would enjoy it John.
