Saturday, January 30, 2016

Poem. Marrow by Robert Matejko

Dear art!
You call out to the world with the very marrow your inspiring name!
Matriarchies and oligarchies both seek out the secret of you that brings such fame,
as you bring to life sensuous sounds and strokes of brush,
that would otherwise be made in vain.

The marrow of your existence lies in the very bones of the world,
as under your influence,
the arrays of sensory experience of this sphere of existence,
they are unfurled.

You sweeten the vice of artistic endeavor,
as you turn words from dull to clever,
bring painters brush to life;
you grant skill unto the craftsman,
who in turn brings you to life under his swaying knife.

So many feel your existence in their marrow,
as dapples of sunlight invigorate human souls to endeavor,
to extol the virtues of your muses all,
arrays of muses arrayed before the world,
for the breath and life of all.

Dear art,
you come to souls in the dead of night,
when wings are torn and bones are but hollow and dry;
you give to human souls new flight,
and bones of lovers and friends the same are set to sing in the deep of night.

None know the full title of your mysterious name,
but alas,
it does seem infinite,
for the various tones of your expression,
they go on again and again into infinity,
muse turned upon itself like a delightful child's game.

I kiss the marrow of your rich lips,
caress your tender face with care,
as I write this homage to you,
entering with no trepidation,
the depths of your beautiful and mysterious lair,
and I give my hand to you ever more,
oh art,
until the days of earth run cold,
and I tend to you with my own craft,
oh art.
who's very marrow turns silver unto gold...

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