A Letter to Hieronymus Bosch
I am not surprised Master you ran away,
whipped by songs of birds,
blinded by the dawn of spring
You slammed closed the shutters in your workroom.
And stood staring at the frosted boards.
There is a black so clear
it is enough to look to see
distance and only distance - concentration.
But it was darkness.
Dry brushes seemed like bunched twigs.
Paints on the palette like bird droppings.
You heard a voice insisting:
Don't choose, you mustn't choose
walk on the edge of possibility
between the abyss on either side.
Combine inconsistencies.
With a needle of ice and a thread of blood
The tatters of flames must be sewn into a fire,
Don't be afraid.
Fear of greatness makes us
smaller than we are,
Don't divide the world into holiness, lust and fear.
The world is not a triptych.
Mix the paints, good and bad,
Jumble things up!
Madness consoles...
You were saved by the smell of herbs
drying in the heat outside the window.