The View from the Window

Karl Ludwig Kaaz, "View from Grassis Villa"

The View from the Window

Like a painting it is set before one,

But less brittle, ageless; these colours

Are renewed daily with variations

Of light and distance that no painter

Achieves or suggests.  Then there is movement,

Change, as slowly the cloud bruises

Are healed by sunlight, or snow caps

A black mood; but gold at evening

To cheer the heart.  All through history

The great brush has not rested,

Nor the paint dried; yet what eye,

Looking coolly, or, as we now,

Through the tears' lenses, ever saw

This work and it was not finished?

R. S. Thomas



I've been thinking a lot about art recently, where are the borders between art and - non-art? And this poem, so interesting how its frame is a window. Maybe that's the border? In which case, it's wherever you put a frame. But then the poem adds another level, one that is so commonplace and yet of a wonderful strangeness - the view through the window-frame is always moving and changing, and yet is always a complete work. How marvelous! I confess I had never thought of this before reading this poem. Perhaps this is why excellent paintings seem to change, or we see different things in them at different times - perhaps a very gifted artist is able to convey a tiny glimpse of that ever-changing wholeness. Lovely. This is a poem to chew on.