by cricketjeff on October 29, 2010. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
And felt the light that painted nature’s art.
He struggled with his palette, tried to set his visions free
And struggled with the demons in his heart.
“Impressionistic nonsense” cried the critics of his age
But now we see the beauty that was captured by his rage.
He painted lights between the stars that telescopes reveal,
Saw beauty in an ancient wooden chair.
He tore down screens of prejudice that high flown words conceal,
To show us all the colours of the air.
“What rubbish is he daubing” cried the critics of his age
Who couldn’t see the truth his brushes conjured out of rage.
Few artists ever understand the minds of lesser men,
And fewer still can understand their own.
He poured his pained frustration through the river of his pen,
At fools who never saw what they were shown.
Ignoring all the warnings from the critics of his age,
Uncomplicated honesty found succour in his rage.
In galleries and offices, on stamps and birthday cards,
We gaze upon the beauty that he wrought;
And sitting in the wreckage that our knowledge disregards,
We think we’ve learned the lessons that he taught.
But we still hear the voices of the critics of our age,
Instead of seeing nature through our undefeated rage.