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OF Beauty- for Loulou

Poetry By: donkylemore
Classics



Grappling with the aesthetic ,
Aristotle
Aquinas
The sweating striving of integrity and the charlatan-poseur
The phoney
And what is it anyway .. this thing we call '' Beauty ''
Is the flower beautiful before you set your gaze on it ,or does is become beautiful because you looked and found it pleasing to the senses and gave you an uplifted feeling.
Why ?


Submitted:Jun 16, 2014    Reads: 7    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


~~FOR LOULOU -BLOOMSDAYY '14

What hand is this that derives
The poet to make his rhyming chime
A symmetry of word
Of shape design ; oh Lord !

Is it thou that Aquinas sought
To tell of form , the soul, the very thought
That makes the ineffable
So palpable ?

That irrespective of his place or time
The beholder sees the sublime
And in his feebleness
Bows before your omniscience

The poet , sculptor and composer
Artist all -strive to imagine his creator
For each knows within his beating breast
Without Your hand , his art is simply bereft

Wanton , unloved abandoned things
Without Your guidance cannot take these godly wings
And fly , and settle in the homely soul
And render comfort there when made whole

Each artist strives to make his work complete
Yet each one knows his opus is to be a step behind his feat
To attain his , finished , final consummation
Without the Hand ; the work is but a mere summation


Some do it with a crooked word
Some blemish the bronze in the fire of the forge .
Some with a flattened note
Others with repeated verse made rote
The coward resorts to Photoshop
To beautify a cheated job

Know the fraudster who practices to deceive
Know what enfeebled ,heedless, thing he's achieved
Know that without that Hand that gently strokes the soul
Nothing ever in that wholesome soul
Can ever render comfort there,
Even when made whole

~~FOR LOULOU -BLOOMSDAYY '14

Of Beauty

What hand is this that derives
The poet to make his rhyming chime
A symmetry of word
Of shape design ; oh Lord !

Is it thou that Aquinas sought
To tell of form , the soul, the very thought
That makes the ineffable
So palpable ?

That irrespective of his place or time
The beholder sees the sublime
And in his feebleness
Bows before your omniscience

The poet , sculptor and composer

Artist all -strive to imagine his creator
For each knows within his beating breast
Without Your hand , his art is simply bereft

Wanton , unloved abandoned things
Without Your guidance cannot take these godly wings
And fly , and settle in the homely soul
And render comfort there when made whole

Each artist strives to make his work complete
Yet each one knows his opus is to be a step behind his feat
To attain his , finished , final consummation
Without the Hand ; the work is but a mere summation


Some do it with a crooked word
Some blemish the bronze in the fire of the forge .
Some with a flattened note
Others with repeated verse made rote
The coward resorts to Photoshop
To beautify a cheated job

Know the fraudster who practices to deceive
Know what enfeebled ,heedless, thing he's achieved
Know that without that Hand that gently strokes the soul
Nothing ever in that wholesome soul
Can ever render comfort there,
Even when made whole





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