Ode To Jackson Pollock
Yours are the paintings that speak to me
In a way that cannot be spoken
They fill both my heart and breast
They cause my mind eternal unrest
I see them in my dreams.
My heart beats faster
In the presence of their rhythms
They dance to the music of another lover.
Or that lover could be me
I feel your passion as my truth.
The broader the strokes the more I feel
The lesser your details must be given
Every color executed with a reason
I know the fervor that you’ve shown
The metrics of your vision.
The finer grains of your textured points
Like stars thrown cross the heavens
Are they the products of a celestial force?
Did God choose to show himself through you?
Or just serendipity as many would believe?
Some accidental truths.
Nothing special
Nothing to be gained
Nothing to be learned from you.
I see them as an orchestration of the divine
conducted from above.
Yours are the paintings that speak to me, Jackson.
Yours are the paintings I love.
(November 30, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
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