painters and poets

 

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it seems

it should be

by its seeming to be

as it seems

 

that often painters are poets

and poets painters in the heart of their imaginations

(which is as real a place as any for either)

because a poet poets when his knees are sunk in the earth

and his eyes are turned in the heavens

and the space of his soul is rendered flat and forever

so it can stretch across the void like a drum

as an image resounding in the infinite

through the conduit of his longing

grounded in the broken beyond

skin intact

painting is just that

an action and an act

praying to touch the world beyond the one we see

in the caverns of our eyes

where everyone is as far away as our dreams are far from us

and shocked at the touch and touching of the world

she is seized in its currents

a statue in the snow

beauty is a moment out of time

now passing

now gone

you might squash it flat in anger and despair 

or make it almost in the hope of nearly there

sometimes something like the world is even more than it can be

because we are always everything we are

and everything only nearly

 

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