Fleeting Window Views Poem by Ananta Madhavan

On speeding trains, I like a window seat,
Watching the landscape streak by like
A shaky masterpiece by a little child
On a snow-white sheet in her new drawing book,
As she tries out a box of crayons gifted by grandma.
Railway yards and vacant platforms reel by
Like dealt out cards; elders crouching all absorbed
For the next hand, the bidding and the drinks.

Art can be all the stuff of experience and life.
In a gallery or museum or a showcase, we may see
Marvels of sculpted bronze, a marble bust,
The wrinkles down the cheeks, portraits or a frieze,
Objects of art, things to praise, admire
And marvel at, partly because we are aware
They were made to be treasured, auctioned,
Inherited beyond our time.

Art does not inhere in objects. All the stuff
Of experience, of life itself, partake of art,
As if Art is more Verb than Noun or Epithet.
But Art must be given Form, containment,
Lifted up in Quotes for us to ruminate.
A bus ride or a dinner can be a form of art.