for Scott
The world is made up of so much color.
At the European Collection 1300 - 1800 at The Met,
I am oversaturated with the baby Jesus, and so
Many severed heads, so much death, so
Much despair. All those faces in agony.
It is straining, draining, and I drag my eye
Away from the red, the dead, and the fervor. I
Am full of so much fear and anguish. I know,
The purpose of art is feeling, is to feel, and to think,
But my eye longs for light, and not the light of angels,
But the natural light of sun, of the water-kissed, and the plain,
The mundane, the simplicity of a field seemingly untouched. I
Urge you to the bright, to the color of Monet, all those water lilies,
All that green, yellow and peach. I lavender around the gallery
Of the Impressionists, and the warmth, that brightness is an escape.
I look at the rowboats, the gardens, the sunrises, the poplars, and sigh.
I want to escape into these oceans, these fields, the sunlight. Life
Is for living, I think, and isn't the world dark enough?
originally published at The Account Magazine
:: Ars Poetica: Chroma :: by Leah Umansky | Lemon Poetry Reed Diffuser
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