O.R. Bailey ‘07, M’09, Staff
How do paintings feel so strange and alive?
Out-living their creators as they strive to survive.
We – stare and wonder with hearts corrupt,
Almost expecting a change with movements abrupt.
Expecting smoke from a chimney,
A foot out the door,
Movement through a window,
Or steps on the floor,
A lonely house in the distance,
Covered in rain as it softly begins to pour.
I’ve nearly scene a person adjust themselves in a chair,
Witnessed a woman brush back her forever, falling, hair.
I swear I’ve seen a man blink his eyes to see
And heard them both whisper and plea, “please rescue me.”
Strange thought to beget in a fragile human mind,
Trapped in its own frame away from the answers it tries to find.
How can an artist create such a Thing?
A photograph in this world created from a dream,
The memory of a bird and the song it is meant to sing,
Or is it the recording of a voice, fragile in its scream.
There is the absence of the creator in the image of their art.
Mixed with the feeling of power come bleeding from their heart.