The photograph is out of focus,
just enough of color, light and shapes
for you to remember the day,
all Arabian Nights and paintings,
a house built on travels and memories
and the determination to paint
what was in front of him.
It is harder for you. Things are never so clear.
Emotionally blurred, color, and lights and shapes
that whir in your head like a tentative dancer.
You try to capture them, those things in front
of your heart, often coming close,
often heaving behind bright blurs
trusting the tourists to find the secrets
you struggle so hard to find.
About this poem
I have not been writing the past few days. We have company. Family. And there is something in me that has trouble writing when there is family around, whether it is here, or traveling. I could go into all kinds of psychological study as to why, but it really doesn’t matter. What always matters is not the falling away, but the coming together.
At times, we don’t know what we feel, not exactly. It is murky. Or conflicted. Or, like me, we are just slow in processing emotions.
The photograph was taken at Olana, the home of the Hudson River artist Frederick Church. Like most of us, I blur a shot now and again. Unlike most of us, I save them. Sometimes, the blur is just the thing.