Art as property

A novel is like a candle.  We light it and live in its artificial light as the flame burns all the way down.  When the flame goes out we feel a loss, but a loss more like an empty, unneeded room that we’ve just discovered next to where the kids use to sleep.

A poem is like a candle burning at both ends.  It gives off light that makes us squint.  We look at one end and the other, but can’t judge if it’s burning up or down.  When the flames eat each other in the middle we are left with nothing but a shape, a taste, a smell a sound that is real enough, but like a Christmas ornament has no real use. So we pack the poem in a box and store it in an empty room – a room that now has a purpose.

FG 9/24/2011

All rights reserved by the author Forrest Greenwood.