3.1 To Art and Praxis
Kilometres of shining sand in which the blue sky’s
Clouds wave, mean nothing. The waves,
Too, are meaningless. So are the mountains whose peaks
Are flushed with dawn, or dusk, depending on the time
Of day. Time also means nothing.
Out there in the wilderness where art and praxis
Have yet to tangle, time is just another
Neurosis. It’s the Sublime that now approaches through
The mountain passes, along the shining strand,
And filled with awe and terror we sense how time
Diminishes us, making monumental the mountains
And the strand, the avalanches and the shipwrecks. But now Science
Begins to measure the avalanches and the shipwrecks, recording
The roars of both until they become the kind
Of music that will make the mall’s ordinary crowd
Into a choir, and this random festoon of blooms
Into a memorial drenched with tears, and this shy
Sideways look into a great allegory of passion,
In which huge bronze bells ring dooms
Of unrequited love, great empires
Crash and burn, dynasties go phut,
And just when you thought you knew how this would end
Its meaning, too, eludes you. It doesn’t
End – instead, a little, laconic tune,
Like someone merely whistling, fades away.
© Ian Wedde |
