In a green twilight the avenues of our love
Are shadowed by an unseen running child;
Pennanted, the tower pointing informed perspectives
Discloses how the emotions are least artless
When most experienced. And the grand lonesome
Artifice is needed to mask the primitive
Sensation. If wholly within or without, artless
Is what the eye sees. Disbelieving in perspectives,
The earliest artist is the child, the child
Holding the handsome beetle to the lonesome
Glass, unafraid to mingle primitive
Sensation with science, profane with sacred love.
The canvases like landscapes in a lonesome
Eye flicker upon the iris, the primitive
Sensation altered, enhanced by love, but love
Of a peculiar kind, not passion but perspectives
Seen through the glass of personal feeling, not artless:
Binding the duplicate verities of the child.
Or take the pointillists – how their perspectives
Illustrate through complexity the artless
Plein-air delight, expound the primitive.
Sensation with lucidity that a child
Could understand; yet, not unlike love,
Always about to fail, expose the lonesome,
The more than lonesome terror beyond the child,
The void without nuance, abyss with love
Curiously insignificant, as the artless
Shows through the careful device of dots, perspectives,
In all its fearful rawness the primitive
Sensation. Catastrophe. We wander, lonesome,
Each of us, in the gallery, lonesome.
And there is no arrangement of perspectives,
We feel occasionally, will cause these primitive
Longings to meet harmoniously. O child
Within us, do not be artful or artless,
Speak to us clearly, in any language: love.
Perhaps the primitive is the least lonesome.
Perhaps the child has never once been artless.
Bound by perspectives, we are loosed by love.
Leave a Reply