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,
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,
alas,
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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