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Immigrant 20” x 24” Pencil Study on Paper
In the Presence of Poetry
I will tell my grandchildren someday when they are older that in fact I always wildly toss warm clay onto the armature while scribbling the next great novel on the back of my last charcoal portrait of an 1890’s immigrant worker while humming songs from around the world. How else can I explain that I have always been first the poet, then the artist, then the musician, the mathematician, and all the rest—that none of it was my own choosing, but merely that Poetry chose me?
I suppose I could tell them that if you happen to sense Shakespeare in a galloping horse, or hear Mozart in a moonlit pond, or see Michelangelo in the swoop of a hawk, it is all the language of poetry. And I suppose I could try to explain to them that poetry—the magic grammar of the Word--is the guts of anything good, especially of good art, genuine creativity, and beauty that is eternal.
“Grandfather, you mean you can build colors and art and clouds and music and horses and math and mountains and butterflies and everything else nice like ice cream and cake from—from just Poetry?“
“Sure you can!” I will reply without hesitation, because to say something that utterly absolute is the essence of true poetry--what it means to live a life in the presence of poetry.
“Treeman” A sheep-killing mongrel’s knee-level view of events that changed history forever.
Studium et Liturgica One son’s literary blog.
Bio Statement Philosophy of Art and Life.
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