Poem: Art Class

Art Class

You draw,
not well perhaps,
with tiny lines, not quite straight,
proportions less
than perfect,
the tower leaning,
like a tree battling a hundred years
of winds,
not the stuff of art school,
a clutterscape
of pen and ink,
details abound, and yet
the impression
is abstract,
unreal,
not the stuff of museums
or glossy magazines,
but something else,
something that resonates
with line and color,
the black ink, scratched
on textured white paper
crying out
for order and fairy tales
that we dream of,
yet never quite
come true.

And yet,
long after class is over,
and the teachers are gone,
you draw
your life, flawed,
at times smeared and untidy,
beautifully imperfect,
but undeniably,
and unexpectedly,
art.

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The photo is of a drawing I did a while back. (yes, I draw, just as imperfectly as the poem suggests). It hangs in my studio. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom