for H
*let us write for one,
one another*
~~~~~~~~
let us premise.
we are much the same.
despite the fact that we are all genetically
different,
we come with the same equipage.
this is the miracle.
this is the strange.
at the intersection
at the corners of
Strange St. and Beauty Avenue,
the street poets slam,
drawers chalk paint Chagalls
upon the sidewalk,
street musicians sing songs of
Beethoven and Billy Joel,
let us agree.
we see with eyes, we hear with ears, we tongue taste,
voices, make swears and tunes.
soldiers with a standard, life-issued backpack.
you have vocal chords, but can you sing?
some see a village.
some see a fiddler.
the artist see the fiddler on the roof,
sees the strange in the ordinary,
and from this makes the beauty,
that in its differing is its uniting.
we all know words.
then we unite them in different combinations,
and A Tale of Two Cities sits on shelves,
in different alphabets, even dots and dashes,
wherever, readers read.
it is always,
the best of times, the worst of times.
it will always be that way.
it will be the strange among us,
*that see the music,
taste the words,
dance the paint,*
sharing it with us,
purging the the common, the ordinary,
yet making the common, the ordinary,
extraordinary,
giving us beauty of art,
in an uncommon but shared vision.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
for H
*let us write for one,
one another*
~~~~~~~~
let us premise.
we are much the same.
despite the fact that we are all genetically
different,
we come with the same equipage.
this is the miracle.
this is the strange.
at the intersection
at the corners of
Strange St. and Beauty Avenue,
the street poets slam,
drawers chalk paint Chagalls
upon the sidewalk,
street musicians sing songs of
Beethoven and Billy Joel,
let us agree.
we see with eyes, we hear with ears, we tongue taste,
voices, make swears and tunes.
soldiers with a standard, life-issued backpack.
you have vocal chords, but can you sing?
some see a village.
some see a fiddler.
the artist see the fiddler on the roof,
sees the strange in the ordinary,
and from this makes the beauty,
that in its differing is its uniting.
we all know words.
then we unite them in different combinations,
and A Tale of Two Cities sits on shelves,
in different alphabets, even dots and dashes,
wherever, readers read.
it is always,
the best of times, the worst of times.
it will always be that way.
it will be the strange among us,
*that see the music,
taste the words,
dance the paint,*
sharing it with us,
purging the the common, the ordinary,
yet making the common, the ordinary,
extraordinary,
giving us beauty of art,
in an uncommon but shared vision.
Well at the risk of my masculinity, attended the ballet, where prior to the performance the conductor talked about the music of Prokofiev and Barber, and quoted a literary critic (Haydor?) that said that the artist sees the strange and from it makes beauty.
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