Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Would That I Could

Bitter is a good word to describe the 
Way I've felt about my hands, 
That they were not made to shape,
To form things of beauty in the way
Human or natural form, that they were
Not given the delicate touches
That can give life to flat lines and
Smeared pigments upon unmarred
Surface.

In vain did I try to make short fingers,
Thick lips work upon instruments,
Brass and ivory and string,
Only able to bring forth rudimentary
Noises, the semblance of aural pleasure
But nothing of its soul, the heavy-
Washing river running sometimes gentle,
Sometimes rushing, sometimes raging,
Alongside internal breastplate rhythms.

To have one look at my work and have instantaneous connection, revelation, devotion
To and against it, would be a dream unattainable,
A thing that these ugly blocks of symbols, letters, never able to arouse, a secondary middle man
Between the flow of untainted emotion and the tangible world,  never approaching the embodiment of.