Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Art is an act of Love

Silence: a love poem
Letters stilled,
Songs buried with the dead.
Violence brought about
By the fear of words, the brush, the pen…
All birthed by pain and blood.

Images of enlightened are pursued by those who want to silence….

The power of thought,
Boldly struck;
Court death, censorship, imprisonment, exile
Or quickly, negation.

Yet this is how we love

Some praise the deceased
Lorca, Neruda, Brutus, Agosin, Lorde, Tutola
Stilled words
That still liberate us all
Many, many more musicians, writers, painters;
And the very heart of humanity the poets
This is how we love, now
By braving all
For all of us.

The few tears others shed
While savoring every fierce word and image;
That are left behind or becoming
Smell numbly of the fear
Of not embracing the art, the truth
And leaving behind blindness.

To us, the artists
That shiver awake at night
Lie in terror not of death
But of not loving enough.

This is not courage at all
That imperils us,
But passion
For we must see into the darkness
And define it;
Or suffer not to love.

Some have tried to stop me too
In so many ways’
To convince sweetly or conquer with terror.
I have been shot at, men threatened to have my hands cut off.
Worse ignored like the Cassandra that I am.
I never stopped for
What I,
All of us, fear the most,
Is to stop telling
And be silent.

This is how I love
Must love
Thoughts of the beautiful, the neglected, forgotten, untold
But haunted by the terrible visions of violence;
Rendered well.

For this is how artists love…

Toni Truesdale copyright 1990

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