‘True art springs solely from inspiration; all else is jobbery’.
J. M. W. Turner.
Attempts by the artistic temperament to improve the Philistine mind have been thwarted by ignorance of the fact, now historically obvious, that the task is futile.
Any such efforts are immediately turned into some kind of user-friendly porridge.
Fruitless to unleash beauty into a world that prefers plastic
Or pipe a tuneful air to the lilt of a poem
When all it wants to hear
To techno bass-electro hum.
Better these asinine mores
Were left to their own devices
Than souped up by art’s fine gifts
To cavort like monkeys at the clink of a coin
Better to pull the plug now
Better were poetry something they’ve heard of…
But not heard.
Better were music so distant as to require a distinct effort…
To hear it.
Better were art to be true only unto itself.
Better he’s left
His avaricious pursuits
Than invite him to dance with the Muse
For he’ll tread on her toes
Trade smuts with a leer
and whisper lewd words
In her ear.
Pic: Claire Palmer