01-20-2014, 08:58 PM
Art, like God is undefinable, although we may choose to go to war over the definition of both. The style that is used can be debated as best for the piece, the clarity can also be dissected in terms of grammatical, spelling, figures of speech, needless or unintentioned ambiguity best word choice, and so on. The kill of the artist/writer determines how clearly that which is attempting to be made manifest succeeds in making it's way through to be apprehended by others. The artist transmits the art, he does not create it, anyone who believes they are is either very young or a fool. I have returned to pieces of mine from 20+ years ago, and see things in it that not only was I not aware of at the time, but due to my stage of development could not have comprehended. Obviously it was not "I" that inserted that awareness into the writing/art, as I was both unaware of the concept, and basically lacked the skill to manifest it upon the page, and yet there it was, and is today. As this is not a poem review, I will insert this here as evidence, or at least a compelling argument.
Midwife
Asleep, deep in the twilight part of night, sometimes,
I’ll be awakened by a sleepless poem pacing in my mind.
Knowing that fighting is pointless, I'll eventually concede,
give in, get up and write it down, vowing, "Just this one last time!"
Only to find the lines already formed, cadence set, as well as rhyme.
Though late and despite me, this nascent being never hesitates
in fear: for like a babe full formed does this poem appear.
No part had I in its gestation, nor did it need me to create;
it need only barrow of me that small a priori part of mind.
Thus relegated, I play my role as midwife and womb surrogate,
though an easy labor for this birth had been pre-defined.
Birthed from this mental wasteland, a newly emanate light,
to confound the drowsy darkness and conquer the sleeping night.
©2008 ~Erthona
Midwife
Asleep, deep in the twilight part of night, sometimes,
I’ll be awakened by a sleepless poem pacing in my mind.
Knowing that fighting is pointless, I'll eventually concede,
give in, get up and write it down, vowing, "Just this one last time!"
Only to find the lines already formed, cadence set, as well as rhyme.
Though late and despite me, this nascent being never hesitates
in fear: for like a babe full formed does this poem appear.
No part had I in its gestation, nor did it need me to create;
it need only barrow of me that small a priori part of mind.
Thus relegated, I play my role as midwife and womb surrogate,
though an easy labor for this birth had been pre-defined.
Birthed from this mental wasteland, a newly emanate light,
to confound the drowsy darkness and conquer the sleeping night.
©2008 ~Erthona
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.