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| Sarah Harding |
Wood Pictures in Spring
The rich
brown-umber hue the oaks unfold
When spring's young sunshine bathes their trunks in gold,
So rich, so beautiful, so past the power
Of words to paint--my heart aches for the dower
The pencil gives to soften and infuse
This brown luxuriance of unfolding hues,
This living luscious tinting woodlands give
Into a landscape that might breathe and live,
And this old gate that claps against the tree
The entrance of spring's paradise should be--
Yet paint itself with living nature fails:
The sunshine threading through these broken rails
In mellow shades no pencil e'er conveys,
And mind alone feels fancies and portrays.
When spring's young sunshine bathes their trunks in gold,
So rich, so beautiful, so past the power
Of words to paint--my heart aches for the dower
The pencil gives to soften and infuse
This brown luxuriance of unfolding hues,
This living luscious tinting woodlands give
Into a landscape that might breathe and live,
And this old gate that claps against the tree
The entrance of spring's paradise should be--
Yet paint itself with living nature fails:
The sunshine threading through these broken rails
In mellow shades no pencil e'er conveys,
And mind alone feels fancies and portrays.
John Clare
“Past the power of words to paint.” I’m going to call this poem an artistic intersection. The poet feels words are inadequate to convey the beauty he sees, and wishes he could use pencil and paint instead, but no, that won’t be adequate either, this is a living unfolding of colour and light – no, he thinks, there is no medium except the moment and the mind itself. Which made me think – are our memories of certain things works of art? Could it be said that our minds hold a gallery of moments, of places and interactions that we can call up and recreate? Do we stand in the art museums of our minds sometimes, to enjoy a breathing beauty which language and paint are too sluggish to portray? I had never thought of it quite like that before.
“Past the power of words to paint.” I’m going to call this poem an artistic intersection. The poet feels words are inadequate to convey the beauty he sees, and wishes he could use pencil and paint instead, but no, that won’t be adequate either, this is a living unfolding of colour and light – no, he thinks, there is no medium except the moment and the mind itself. Which made me think – are our memories of certain things works of art? Could it be said that our minds hold a gallery of moments, of places and interactions that we can call up and recreate? Do we stand in the art museums of our minds sometimes, to enjoy a breathing beauty which language and paint are too sluggish to portray? I had never thought of it quite like that before.
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