Thursday, December 3, 2009

A SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET


The Necessity of Color

This is no place for dainty tempered forms
The time is short, the world below my pen.
The artist is an inky lightning storm:
Monsooning thoughts and lead- you know this, then
Creation's a strange process from the heart
As the artist heaves her pencils and her paints
Breathing life into her people and her art
A god of canvas prophets, paper saints.
What's god but he who paints the skies in blue?
And leaves us, till the end of days, controlled
By urgency that guides the artist's tools,
That draws mankind to paint our painted world.
The truth makes godless painters work all night:
They know the world will end in black and white.


[Written for a school assignment. Picture is of Grand Prismatic Springs in Yellowstone, taken from Wikipedia.]

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