Artistic sensibility
hungering for the exquisite
craves expression
The critic guffaws
decries creativity
starves the impulse
Who unleashed
such nonsense,
such magical thinking?
To think beauty
once espied
can be replicated
and by such an amateur –
the unskilled hand
an unworthy representative
But the artist, unleashed
knows only magic –
the genie will not be rebottled.
(This is an edited version of a previous post. Art my own.)
Sentence and paragraph
insufficient vehicle
for processing grief
Words, like miniature life rafts
waft in and out of misery’s depths
begging for release
As if a damn has broken
and the flood of emotion
will settle for nothing less
than poetic expression.
(Image my own)
Somewhere inside,
beneath the noise
of to do’s, or regrets,
buried so deep,
that I disbelieve
it exists, and yet…
there it is –
pulsating in sleep,
disrupting idle moments –
a hum, a breeze, a niggling,
as if I’ve trapped passion,
like a firefly, jarred it
in some inner cellar…
and still, it glows –
begs for the light of day,
a slit in consciousness
through which to escape –
inspiration demanding
expression.
One Woman's Quest 