“What I dream of is an art of balance, of purity and serenity devoid of troubling or depressing subject matter – a soothing, calming influence on the mind, rather like a good armchair which provides relaxation from physical fatigue.” (Henri Matisse)
Beyond the manifold forms of mappable lands,
Lies the hinterland. The woods.
As you walk beyond stubbles, scents and scarecrows
Intermingled on revivable fields,
An ineffable air penetrates your senses.
It could be benediction or doom here.
Depends how you teeter between unrefined layers of
Fear, amazement and receptivity.
In here are seasons of equanimity and berries,
And instants of conflagration and yelps.
On the narrow sinuous paths you can wonder as a lord
In your bedizened with pricey emblems barouche,
Or you can thaw your acrid pneuma in a ramshackle cottage.
All up to intent. Or down to it.
There had been years when it was all doused in a frail
Stream that desired more than its course provided.
The moss covered the trees as lacy ivy afterwards,
And the tawny blanket of quenched soil suggested stifling mud.
But, easy to notice, the sunrays do possess forceps
To cut through the intertwined crowns of the soaring trees
That conceal all that is done and kept at the base.
So, don’t pore over the inescapable impression.
If you spiral your electric synapses towards
Self, you will see there is a genuine similitude
Between this hinterland and the others’.
Another mantelpiece on the inner fireplace in cold epoch,
But same trail of flame finally escorts your all,
As a torch that keeps away the oppressive wilderness,
To the way out. To dazzle and safe ground.