To My First Love... Art.

To art..

A hiss, a whisper.

The glimmer of creation.

It hangs everywhere

In the abyss here.

This place,

This moment…

It IS creation,

Waiting, wanting,

Needing to happen.

 

Wisps of it come forth,

Glances made in my mind.

A boulder shifts on a mountain

Whilst the wind whispers my name.

Gentle rays of the dawn show

Through the darkness of night,

Of my tired slumber.

My fingers twitch at the feel.

 

It grabs my hand,

Shows me the way…

But only I

Can take that leap.

I’ll trust my muse...

 

The wind catches me nimbly,

Lifts me and into the clouds I soar.

The land tumbles, blurs before me

And the sun is cresting the horizon.

Brilliant gold enflames the land.

My land, my world, the plane of creation.

The auburns of the sky,

Teals, crimsons and yellows of open fields

Is my pallet for the painting I’ll make,

The presentation to you,

The audience reading,

My fellow humans listening

To my creation.

This is to you.

 

This uplifting feeling,

The sensation, my breathing..

It may just be too much for me,

Because I’m starting to lose control.

The wind begins to let go of me,

And a moment I tumble,

My soul lost in the confusion

Of pseudo-inspiration.

My stomach leaps into my throat,

Choking me for the briefest moment.

I’ll crash if I don’t gain control,

And spiral into insanity’s depths.

 

My eyes close to the beauty

Closing in on my vision.

The colors have blurred into a solid brown

With random streaks of colors.

I tuck into myself and focus…

Landing in a roll and running neatly

From the awkwardish-graceful landing.

 

The brown has faded into the gold of the plains,

Running where there should be lions and antelope.

But no, I have not made them yet.

A wave of my hand,

The simples brush stroke,

And they appear with me.

Their wild spirit lifts me in a bound

And I fly again,

My feet leaving the ground

As the inspirational wind lifts me up.

 

Up into the arms of a lover.

I relax into the lilac

Of her scent.

The indigo that is me

Melds with her neatly.

The calm serenity

Of the truest romance

Lets me use the gentlest curves

In my creation.

I build my lover up in return

And show the world

The goddess she is,

A pure woman

Made of the lightest sound.

 

The colors dance together

With the soft sound of violins,

A deep ruby lighting my life

With the fine red of Merlot.

A gown made of words

And a song made with paints

Gives her a symphony

All her own

To dance through in light

And in the love I hold for her.

Music, Poetry, Painting, Sculpture!

Oh art, how I adore thee,

The life you grant me

Makes me completely whole,

Allows me to experience all.

 

This one is dedicated

To the art I practice,

The first love I knew,

One that has always been there.

Author's Note

Was going to doctor this up with some editing, but FantasyFairy showed me that the words themselves do it on their own.. :)

Reviews

[Fantasyfairy]

I know you say not to comment on this, but how read something this wonderful and not tell you how beautiful I think it is? The phrasing is so wonderful it just takes you away to another world, just like art does. So well written, I am truely amazed. This is excellant, and so well written I just can't find the ords to tell you how much this has moved me. XX

[These Haunted Hallways]

Well said, John, very well said. Being a musician myself, i can relate to this write, plenty. Just like Beethoven observed, "Music is the one incorporeal entrance into the higher world of knowledge which comprehends mankind but which mankind cannot comprehend," and, "Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy, it is the wine of a new procreation, and I am Bacchus (the Greek God of wine) who presses out this glorious wine for men and makes them drunk with the spirit." Well Done!

B.A.

[♥ Courtney &hear..]

That was so wonderful. My goodness you have SUCH a way with words its INSANE

[Michael X]

John, this is very Nice work- I personally felt outside suggestions would disrupt the flow-you've evolved this
poem into exactly what it is projected to be.. to be able to look at words like pictures, and that is what
defines this poem in of itself is the quality of passionate imagery produced by the imagination and its
ability to transport the reader to different places-different times-its absract in nature-the way of blending
colors together .. metaphor is at the root- the bard's ode to first loves -timeless art

This place,
This moment�
It IS creation,

[Mariah Stussy]

Wow. I like it. Now I see what you mean by write about anything and just write what is in your mind. Thanks! = )

[[untitled]]

A wonderful tribute to art. Enjoyed reading it. Thank you for sharing.

[Emily B]

Oh art, Oh word, How I adore thee!

I was captivated. Felt like I had been there before, maybe. . .

[KUFU]

F A V O R I T E !

One of your best Stussy.

[Deborah Leah Krempa]

Beautiful and inspiring write. Thank you for sharing. Debileah