Last year
she asked:
she asked:
"Have you
written any
poetry lately?"
Well, I remember
(which does not mean:
I remember well)
I remember well)
one I wrote
two thousand
six days ago
tomorrow
two thousand
six days ago
tomorrow
[lapse]
She asked:
"Are you an artist?"
I f a lt e re d
What I meant to say:
"I'm living."
Life as Picasso:
(I guess this makes this
an artist's commune)
an artist's commune)
Life as Picasso:
Longing an O'Keefe:
Words like teeth do chomp:
"The word 'art' interests me very much.
If it comes from the Sanskrit, as I've heard, it signifies 'making.'"
-Marcel Duchamp
If it comes from the Sanskrit, as I've heard, it signifies 'making.'"
-Marcel Duchamp
And the one I wrote this morning:
her dancing round heart
the accidental haiku
beating safe and sound
Thank you,
I said, for asking.
I said, for asking.
What I was trying to express(but did not) is that your writing,or perhaps the emotion or inspiration behind it,(and I've been reading because I love you, I'll always love you and you are amazingly gifted) isn't genuine, something seems off. Perhaps one can't be truly great as an artist when true happiness is in abundance. Happiness is a beautiful thing, and I pray one day I,too, fall in love again and stop loving something and someone who isn't there any longer.
ReplyDelete