Sunday, March 13, 2011

Poem: When the Aliens Ask of Art

Odd you should ask me,
inclined as I am to offer
a thousand sorrows humans
visit upon each other, but I see
you’ve grown tired of random,
dime-a-dozen litanies,
when you’ve caught the scent
of art. Very well.
Of art:

Here are figure skaters.
A line is left describing
where they’ve been, a cold
cartography. The patterns?
They mean nothing.
They do not commend
one route over any other.
That would not be art.
I see you understand this.

You see how arms can grace
a circle or make you think
of wind on grass. Note
how the female seems
to push her heart out
through the palms of her hands, 
then brings them back empty.
Art is a ladle you offer
to passersby, never asking names.

(appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction)

No comments:

Post a Comment