I thrice read a collection of poems by
Bo Carpelan only about your paintings,
Klee, and pretty sure this painting
with the little fir tree under the red,
bloated sun, wasn't in it. Those,
painted like children draw them,
make a landscape out of this;
oh, they are not out of place, they
fit snugly in, Klee, like pieces
in a jigsaw puzzle. Yet the abstract
becomes familiar, the mind forces
everything to find shape according
to the fir tree and the sun, from
their corner they assign order,
the fir tree still gaining height,
a bloated red sun, a summer dusk,
shaping a grassy cliff, a green field,
and the approaching night.
This would have been out of
place, in that collection thrice read,
because with your little fir tree
and the bloated, red sun, Klee,
you lead the watcher's thoughts
to a corralled pasture.
25.04.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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