The Most Beautiful Art

The most beautiful art, it seems to me, comes from pain. I certainly do my best writing when I am unhappy. I know this is true for many. I wonder why it is harder to write from joy? I've never been able to do it well. Everything I write from joy sounds trite and cheesy. Some might say everything I write sounds trite and cheesy, but I think they'd be wrong about that. LOL

Of course Ode to Joy is in direct opposition to what I wrote above. Maybe it is just the people like myself - rather inexperienced artists - find pain easier to express artistically. In the end, all I know is what works for me.



Release

I sit on stone beside the river.
Leaves of Willow and Birch surround.
A death shroud most fitting.

Anguish crashes against stone
like the river’s din.
Relentless, neither yielding

I come for healing, unsure if even this place
is strong enough for the task. I examine the
shards of a shattered life, seeking a lesson.

Here, the familial love withdrawn in shades of racism.
There, the job precariously balanced due to your position.
Another, my wild nature tamed by your children, half grown.
I sacrificed all of importance and laid myself bleeding and empty
in supplication at your feet to acquire a gem far more precious:
Us.

The rush of the river drowns the sounds of a life crushed
to hear your whispers. The relentless sound as the glass
settles into its heap beside me. Echoed mercilessly through
the dead telephone line, the last I heard from you.

My breath gone, my tears gone, the clamor of water’s rush fills me anew.
Freedom comes in realization: none of the past can be reclaimed.
I let the river sweep the glass downstream I want no part of it.
Instead I gather clay.
My life starts here.

Joni
November 4, 2004