Art, I am told, is fabulously useless,
A commodity beyond quick comprehension,
Yet fattening the purses of the wise.
I can hear God in the cool voice of the cello,
The anguish of a Sinti violin
Played by a refugee to earn some bread.
Profit and loss disrupt the music scene.
Art becomes holy when we truly love it,
Heals the anguished heart, the broken mind,
Makes dreams come true, if only for a minute.
Life without art is sterile and unkind.
Art is love expressed in song and Ikons.
I watched the towers of Rouen fade in rain,
Transformed into stone clouds above the city,
Losing solid mass, yet retaining their perfection,
Silent prayers merging with the storm.
Prayer is a type of art, a spiritual outpouring
Expressed in words, in paint, in Cathedral spires
Writing silent music on the sky.
Art is in the kiss a mother gives
With true compassion to her weeping child.
Art is not artifice, it does not hide the truth
Behind a glittering face mask of conceit
That will soon be packed away when fashions alter.
Art has no time limit. It has our generous love
That does not change although our hair turns grey.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 19th. - 22nd. 2021.
Love this one!
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