Archive
11/01/12
The Mystique
Tonight's artistic mystique is an intriguingly complete mystery to me, A passion-inspired, destiny-fired Shakespearean play Yet to be scribbled in ink tinctured with unaging music; A Monet sunset or sunrise, over a lily-pad pool in Giverny, Yet to be painted, on a freshly stretched canvas, With the spirit-mixed pigments of the sensibilities' heartbeats; A hallowed Attic urn Yet to be turned into the contours of a vestal virgin, By the same nameless, enraptured sculptor Who shaped, with his liberating hands, The sensuous, come-to-life form capturing Aphrodite of Milos.
Perhaps it's the vastness of each new evening's mystique That emboldens and consoles me To go in naked search of its meaning, Seek out the matrix from which, so long, long ago, Emanated the secrets of mankind's proclivities for creativity, That seminal, primal, innate need to emulate the Creator, Who placed, in forever motion, the oceans' slowly flowing waves, Tied them to the lunar phases of sensual Diana's menstrual tides, Divided heaven from earth, water from sky, day from night, Right from wrong, good from evil, life from death — The ultimate masterpiece of ethereal genius.
And maybe it's the vague mystique of my dreams coming true, Or make-believe making reality believable, That leads me to pursue unadulterated quietude, beauty, truth, Makes me believe fervently, devotedly, whole-soully, That poems which have yet to be composed Are breathing, being nourished in the preternatural bloodstream Of every yet-to-be-born conception of myself, Waiting to be transformed into ink, paper, books, The universal mind, which will perpetually give birth to my verse, Every time anyone who reads my lines Goes in naked search of the mystique I've set free.
11/01/12
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