Spent last evening with invisible thread.
Beneath a crocheted installation,
a gossamer of words were spun and said.
And so wove the night, an incantation
of elevated thought, lifted to a lilt:
hoisted on updrafts of spinnakered air.
As carried by a cello, music spilt
in generous play; danced without a care.
Awash with mood, a manuscript of lines
described the evening and caressed the night.
Suspended hours – hung – as Art designs:
poised in proportion for fanciful flight.
. Spent last evening with invisible thread;
. an entanglement of thoughts, it could be said.
To the reader: It was the gentle ambiance I remember. My home-town (Canberra) was celebrating its Centenary Year with all manner of auspicious events and occasions. One of which was the launch of a book: The Invisible Thread. An evening of ‘light’ entertainment: readings, interspersed with musical interludes. The invisible thread by nature has an unseen presence; nonetheless, it’s strong with connective pull by association.
To the poet: In 2011, I wrote a sonnet (TG-S51) on the same theme. It’s interesting to compare the two. The first unravels the concept of ‘thread’ as an object; the second is much more metaphorical in tone. The second sonnet (TG-S220) plays with a thread’s connective symbolism. Both string together a short narrative. By way of footnote, a few edits (recently applied) gave this sonnet some extra tug.
To all things my interest cannot attend.
I am responsive to movement, colours
and the scent of life; all things so contend
for my attention; distinct of others.
One thing for the moment will steal my gaze.
I take note of that which sways and swishes.
That which has rhythm to my interest plays,
so becomes the pick of many wishes.
I’m partial to soft tones that glow; that blush
the dull canvas with a rose-coloured tint.
I’m partial to that which is full and lush;
that which brings love to life with perfumed hint.
. I cannot attend to all things in sight;
. instead, I seek what gives my eyes delight.
To the reader: Programmed to attend to life’s rhythm; we literally seek and appreciate animation. Some movements have particular powers of attraction. The effortless ‘sway and swish’ of a wiggling-walk makes alluring theatre. The long-stride of confidence without pretence or contrivance draws attention. The nonchalant amble of a carefree character entertains our imagination. Powers of observation energise our interest; sharpen our focus.
To the poet: Infatuation lacks restraint. To ogle is obsessive. Admiration construes a connection. Polite interest requires distance, it respects the dignity of a shared space; eye-contact is confirmed not consumated. From a poet’s vantage point there’s a code of practice that applies to people watching. As subjects of interest ‘the observed’ will tolerate a casual glance; not so an intrusive gaze.
To overcome the arrogance of thought
I must learn to draw what’s seen not known,
I must then, confront the four-legged rort
that would have my tables with all legs shown.
For as long as knowledge controls my hand
I am nothing more than a drafting pawn.
For as long as I am in thought’s command
my work will be crowded and over-drawn.
What my canvas captures is not complete:
it’s my view, my angle, my perspective;
it’s everything that needs to be, replete
with meaning, mine eyes have been selective.
. Beware the mindset, as would knowledge coax;
. of full-display, ’tis but a clever hoax.
To the reader: The conundrum of competing perspectives tickles our intellect. This we accept. In representational terms, there are plainly differences between what we see and what we know. Unhelpfully though, Shakespeare further adds an emotional dimension to our interpretative struggles. He reminds us that regardless of what makes intellectual sense our ‘heart’ speaks its own mind and through this prism creates a kaleidoscope of emotional confusions.
To the poet: “Is to know a hoax, a grand dilusion?” Certainty is no trusted companion; more like a fickle friend; an opportunist; an answer with no solution. The poet is forever tempted, for completeness sake, to achieve resolution; un-puzzle a proposition through clever wit. In poetry, and the visual arts, we learn to create a plausible perspective: true more than accurate, honest more than correct.
It’s all about connecting the connections.
It’s making sense of senses; aligning
touch to a feeling, heart with affections.
It’s the dance of life; all things combining.
It’s rhythms giving meaning to a twist.
It’s the whisper appealing to a wish.
It’s the invitation too tempting to resist.
It’s the meal shared, prepared as though a dish.
It’s all about the partnership of play,
making time to pay attention, closing
doors, opening minds, as moments melt away;
it’s harmony: love and art composing.
. The art of love is appreciation.
. The love of art is its imitation.
To the reader: Love is an artful relationship. By mutual agreement love reveals its simple beauty. Interpretation of love is a critique of responsiveness. Shakespeare’s measure was “fair, kind and true” (s105). The mutual creation of love is organic; full of context and meaning – adding pleasure to mere survival and existence. We fall in love to fully appreciate the art of life; to make life an art.
To the poet: Sometimes we write of love as a subject, about which characters and events revolve and intermingle. Other times, we write of love as an object, about which we describe its parts and possibilities. The ‘art of love and love of art’ is a neat palindromic phrase that finds itself interpreted in the final couplet of this sonnet… art for art sake, love for love sake; together bound.