W I N T E R M O O N
by Britton Minor
Are we not supposed to enjoy
the winter moon? How the trees,
exposed since autumn, stand poised to
shoulder the snow?
Are we not supposed to whisper that
art rattles in the bones?
Where pain and spring, where
tattered regrets, mingle?
Does it matter what moves us
as long as something does?
Is art only to be judged and juried,
trained eyes roving, mouths spouting
Cezanne and Gauguin?
A history of predestined worthiness
is not art.
My god, is a stanza always the same
length? An answer always better
than the question?
Note: Poem and photos prompted by the assertion I’ve heard from some friends and one particular well-trained stranger that there aren’t “real” artists, there isn’t “real” art, at the Laguna Beach Sawdust Festival. I beg to differ.
Creativity is not only in the heart and hands of the creators, but also in the eye of those who behold and admire and purchase art that moves them. Must we only admire art that adheres to a trained standard. Must we judge the lines and curves before we let ourselves be moved to tears without a “valid” explanation?
All work herein, writing and photos, is the property of their creator, Britton Minor.