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By wordley Date: 2020 Apr 05 Comment on this Work [[2020.04.05.10.06.27854]] |
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In my thoughtful state, as I sit and seek to decide between graphite or oils, pastel or ink, And the world is my palette from which my rainbow may be sought, My subject is here, lost in that white field before me, and I think, How may I uncover that blessed detail, in what medium is that beauty best wrought; The peach tree, whose shining, lustred orbs lend the warmest glow to the softest skin Would look less on a starched, white linen ground, her vibrancy lost to all, Whilst the softest sigh of summer breeze, her voice to imitate, to sing, And not be heard by the brush or pen, on this ground would be a silent call; Where would I gather the Almond flecks that are her eyes, so benevolent their gaze? The warmth of her smile would be the sun, its beaming heat all sadness melting, The dearest heart that lives, not captured by mere pigment, but shines with brightest rays, A confusion of colours, a glittering, iridescent kaleidoscope resulting; No, as I sit and ponder how to best employ all the skillsI have at my fingers, I merely have to look at nature, all her finery on show, and sadly realise, That even Leonardo, and his Mona Lisa Gioconda, and that smile that lingers, Is just colour on canvas, has no form or human beauty before my eyes; Call me a heathen, say I do not understand art, and I will somewhat agree, For I seek that which is purity itself, the true, physical nature and grace, And from my studio window I examine every form, every bush, every tree, Nature is an artist true, and only she could capture such a beautiful face.. |