I'm Sort of an Aesthete

I don't hail from anywhere near, Nadine.
I couldn't pass the classes, so I slid back,
Bug inside a bowl, to Colby, where I keep
The books for Arthur's Drilling. We do
Wells. But I subscribe to magazines, and
Read reviews of poetry and painting,
Sculpture, sometimes, dance. I'll tell you
What I think I've found. Somebody
Once, in every field, went nuts, and then
Confusion reigned. The brighter people
Went away, but those remaining were
Convinced that madness equals genius,
That what is opaque must be profound,
And now the arts are little ghettos, filled
With feeble-minded folks, who dribble
Paint, and hammer beams, and write
The first words that they think, as
Those around them spin out incoherent
Theories meant to justify what no one
Understands. I'll tell you now, Nadine,
I see no meaning in your paintings.
They are severed ears, or heads in ovens.
Still, I like the one in red. I'll buy it,
Take it back to Colby. Mostly, though,
I've come for you. The article I read
About your paintings had your picture.
You're so lush as some old caveman's
Venus, brought up from a well, and,
If you're vapid, I don't care. I don't
Intend to stay here long. The floodlit
Flotsam in this ghetto leaves me cold.
What warms me are my thoughts that
I may do some drilling, artfully, with
You.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 57 times
Written on 2010-04-18 at 14:39

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