Poem – Tom Weston

An art historian explains 
how time began

What seemed to be her effortless best.
Speaking was her art,
the silk

purse she grafted from the sow’s ear of
discontent,

what
she found congenial.

It’s all about me,
she knew, artist and index both.

With no investigation the art vanishes.
Eventually,

an understanding that only the explanation
matters:

the art is in the explanation.

She cut out the middleman,
rehearsing

her clever phrases
until she was as fluent as a flashing light,
and as well regarded.

Tagged with: ,
Posted in Poem
Search the archive
Generic selectors
Exact matches only
Search in title
Search in content
Search in posts
Search in pages
Filter by Categories
Architecture
Art
Autobiography
Awards
Biography
Byline
Children
Comment
Contents
ebooks
Economics
Editorial
Education
Essays
Extract
Fiction
Gender
Graphic novel
Health
History
Imprints
Language
Lecture
Letters
Letters
Literature
Māori
Media
Memoir
Music
Natural History
Non-fiction
Obituaries
Opinion
Pacific
Photography
Plays
Poem
Poetry
Politics & Law
Psychology
Religion
Review
Science
Short stories
Sociology
Sport
Subscribers only
Uncategorized
War
YA Reviewers
Young adults
Recent issues: subscriber-only access

Subscribe to NZ Books to access the issues above

Search by category

See more