terrshee's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Art Is Not Pretty Art is not pretty. It may be sublime, but it rarely is beautiful for beauty's sake. It will demand things of an artist that the artist cannot achieve, but even the most skillful rarely creates anything that fully reflects the internal vision. I once fancied myself a poet. Not a particularly good one, but above average and capable of turning out a neatly phrased line or two. I could always feel the words out there, but they rarely made the transition from mind to the page. Still, there's a thing inside that wakes up from time-to-time and tells me I have something to say. It sometimes goes to sleep for long periods. It must be six years since I wrote anything that came from the unconcious. Most of what little I've done has been of the mind, not the muse. I've been fretting over my mother's illness and the whole business of losing those you love. The funeral last week finally forced a few lines that have been swimming around in the back of my brain into my consciousness. It isn't brilliant, and it isn't in proper Italian sonnet form, but at least it is, and that is more than I've had artistically for quite a while. The Departed Guest In tears and smiles I bid the guest farewell How the hours passed I cannot tell; Many a guest has crossed my life's threshold 7:59 a.m. - 2006-04-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- past tense - always tense - future tense |
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