Picture

In the floor to ceiling window

Opens the picture:

The river

Glassy with the sky,

Smudged with autumn morning,

A pale blue glaze

In which mists cling

And spiral,

Calling back

The chill night

That stilled the dew drops

To a crust

And freed the tattered leaves

To mulch beneath the trees,

Sending out

A sweet and heady breath

Of spores

As life withdraws,

Releasing jealousies,

Indifferent now

To the russet matter

Discarded.

When I Look At Art

When I look at art
I’m looking
For the gliding truth
To slice the mediocrity of life
And expose
The pure, clear moment,
The glowing wow,
The real thing,
The something said,
The revelation in my head,
The satisfaction, soul deep,

As I understand

And see

The thing

As it was meant.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

On A Cornish Cliff

Crouching in rock gardens,
Among the hardy flowers
Strummed by the sky’s wide wind,
She finds her perfect moment
And is moved to art,

As if the moment had found her
To carry out its wish
To live beyond its simple richness:
Live once in being witnessed
And then again and again
In the paint’s still vivid kiss.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.