Cerebral
my work is in
my mind alone
I walk a while in the garden
and take no notice
eat a bit of bread and dirt
like a country with no mother
and then doubt
I am called to art…
Poems on the topic: art
Poems on the topic “art” on Poets.by.
Starving artist
All day long looking upon my paint,
I am in the red
of my own making.
Plagiarist
I slept in a paper box,
forgot where I put my hands.
People work to make a light
into my cellar.
I am sorry for lying
to my picture in the glass,
for writing to please friends
and not the rules of art.
I found carpenter’s tools,
which spoke to me.
Instant nostalgia
This morning was green and gilt.
Hands this morning were art.
This night, late to make up my accounts, I sigh for it.
Aphorism
The greatest art men make, they eat.
Selective vision
Another thin dinner to heat—
few know the full mask.
Some jeer making a common count.
To see so little
is one of the greatest arts.
Artist
This morning too was art,
a ship for a seal.
I walked back to where
I had long thought to live:
in error, like the bull
at home on foot.
Living art
the painter went home
and saw paint
his night is my night
an art I ought to be
Parts unknown
I am an ordinary person
ingenuity is better than thinking
the puppet-plays I act in give me new parts
a late foot a head full of order
that absence of joy I perceive as art
though I contrive to have no room for it
Minimalist
my hat is gone
that I might see
more night
the room
pulled down
to make more night
art cannot wait
upon hat or lodging
L’après-midi
green afternoon
and the fawn is off again
an art of being
Reader
called to observe like a guard at a gallery
the art refusing to be quiet
I look over it all and let it go
my books collect time
my mind in good condition
for venturing into the world
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