In A Japanese Garden (Como Park, St. Paul Mn) Poem by Daniel Brick
In A Japanese Garden (Como Park, St. Paul Mn)
The painter is silent,
half-hidden behind her easel.
Above her the bonsai speaks
in a delicate dialect of branches
from which two crows caw their rapture.
Ripples of speech disturb the pond
whose quiet water is as green as
the tea we drank this morning
while we talked about 'the ten thousand things'.
Silent now, we stare
at two gray boulders
and read in their white streaks
whispers of a prehistory
that will forever enfold us
in a world of language
where everything has a name
that eventually comes to the waiting mind.
The painter remains silent.
Her wide brush scatters colors
across 'the nothing' of her canvas.
We wonder, What does her painting say?
But she will not speak to us.
As we walk passed her, talking softly,
she mixes blue and red and black
into a shape that words will never name.
that words will never name. - after reading this I felt such a profound Thank you inside, cause I felt kind of wonder. That I can't name - as a miracle for a child! we lose this childish WOW on everything although still don't understand but just get a habit. It is so difficult to pull this thankfulness out of yourself often, and it is crucial for prayer. Thank you! ! !
An interesting poem is this, where two diff. subjects were dealt.To me it seemed that those poets were rather very disturbing in that calm and solitary place, where the quiet painter was very composed with her creation, she was engrossed with her thinking of creation and created a new color combing diff colors with her paints brush.
...daniel thanks for sharing this very beautiful poem....the atmosphere you created is outstanding, this is the first time I have noticed this in any poem I have read....suppose painters must concentrate on their work to create the best possible piece... and keep the paint flowing in the write direction...I could envision the painter admiring the scene before her... and preparing to paint a lovely painting....probably and most likely a one of a kind masterpiece, just like this poem....truly a superb write....
I loved delicate dialect and whispers of prehistory. I think you meant past (noun) instead of passed (verb) . I shall name my new color Daniel! Haha. That holds potential for nonsensical words in a poem to gain some meaning through association with images. Nonsensical words actually can have strong impact in poems if they utilize prefixes and suffixes, such as I was whugging (verb) , or context I took the whug by the throat (noun) . I liked this poem. Check out John Branyon's youtube video of what Three Little Pigs would have been like if it had been written in Shakespeare's day! It's quite excellent.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 10:12:00 PM # 1.0.0.1119
An awe inspiring poem- - - -explores art - form- - verbal and nonverbal- - - - -poetry and painting- - -Yes, we do not have names for every single color nor words to describe every feeling. To quote a few lines- - - where everything has a name that eventually comes to the waiting mind. The painter remains silent. Her wide brush scatters colors across 'the nothing' of her canvas. We wonder, What does her painting say? But she will not speak to us. As we walk passed her, talking softly, she mixes blue and red and black into a shape that words will never name.
I really feel sorry for your friend Paul and pray God for his recovery.With this poem and your shared information about him, make him an integral part of this poem, both to you as the writer and us, as readers.And here poetry makes an wonderful job as you said- - keeps a happier time intact.
This is a poem I wrote in the 1980s. I'm so glad you found it and enjoyed it. It is one of my first good poems after years of trying unsuccessfully. I went to that garden with my best friend Paul and we each wrote a poem in the garden. His was a heart-felt poem about a lost love.; mine are you see was about creativity in the arts. Now decades later Paul is confined to a rehab center due to a brain injury after a terrible fall over six years ago. He can neither read nor write, and his memory is damaged. But the two poems we wrote keep a happier time intact at least in my memory.