Friday, August 17, 2012

Obscurum per Obscurius













Obscurum per Obscurius
"the obscure by means of the more obscure"

It seems to me you need a concept
so obscure no one will admit
when they don't get it.
Take the woman who sits
embroidering beneath a roof of shears.
Patrons speak in reverential tones--
Clotho, with Atropos above, says one
to his companions.
Or maybe she's Penelope,
biding time till dark.
The artist, bent above her task,
serenely moves her needle in and out,
creating something white on white
that only she can see.
But maybe that's what art is:
a woman, seeming unawares,
stitching threads that mean only
what she wants for them to mean.
Every morning, in the darkness of my room,
I bend above these keys, hoping
to create anything at all,
stitching thoughts with whatever
makes this ink that is not ink
on this page (that's not a page,
but place card of invention).
Every day -- my nod to the obscure
before I move away, leaving home for work,
scissoring my hands before my face
to stop the unseen thread of a web
before it catches me.
She must have sewn in darkness all alone.
It makes me wonder, why do we call it art
only when we have to try too hard?


10 comments:

  1. I dunno. Maybe we should not call it art. Perhaps we should just call it "living butt naked," no obscurity in that!

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  2. "It seems to me you need a concept
    so obscure no one will admit
    when they don't get it."

    I must be easy because I hardly EVER get it! I guess everything is art to me :)

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    Replies
    1. I prefer art that sneaks up on you with subtle ironies or secrets, something that seems simple but holds hidden promise. That's are to me.

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  3. The emperor has no clothes.
    But he thinks he does.
    You ask a good question i have no answer for. Where does art begin and end.
    I loved the imagery of your mornings.
    Rick

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    Replies
    1. Thanks, Rick. GS said, "A rose is a rose is a rose." Maybe we know art when we see it. :-)

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  4. This to me is the heart of the poem's question:
    "a woman, seeming unawares,
    stitching threads that mean only
    what she wants for them to mean."
    We speak or stitch for ourselves, driven by a compulsion that mysteriously arises in us. An odd satisfaction blooms inside us when we answer that need.

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    Replies
    1. Absolutely, Chris!

      Nice to see you here. Hope all is well.

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  5. Hey karen, the daily mail is gonna post a letter from me, think you'll spot it?
    Rick

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