Cooking Two cooks cook. An artist draws. And these lines come from somewhere. The stir-fry’s stirred,             As two pens journey o’er the paper … Leaving art in their tracks. And food is ready and a picture drawn As these few paltry lines draw to a close. J H Wilson May 21, 1993 – Evening copyright 2002 all rights reserved

Aut Ars               Aut Artificialitas What is art?  Does art follow formulae? Who sets the formulae? Is art whate’er the artist does?            Who is an artist? Is art in the perception,           or perceptor? Is art that which the critic recognizes? Who, then, presumes to criticize? Is all art or is all bullshit? Whate’er each soul attempts,              is that not art? And every soul’s whole life its own chef d’oeuvre? The passing soul creates. And, having wrought, then passes on …            Or, passing on, has wrought. The product fits or misses formulae, And is done by the doer, And is perceived as true or artificial, Is duly criticized,           Prais’d or condemned. And All is bullshit, All is art. And life, the product of the artist’s art,           And art, the product of the artist’s life. James H Wilson June 14, 1993 -- 10:53 PM copyright 2002 all rights reserved

Force of Life Massive metal mechanical mania!            Pathetic pulsing pushing! Stimulating, simulating, emulating Life! Swelling the vine of the village. While life doth flow and ebb           Where space admits. And one small scrap of life is Life. And all of it is only striving           To be a part of It. A crowd of souls and entities          Alone together. All driven by the urge to be All Else. 1993, James H Wilson copyright 2002 all rights reserved

Portrait of a Moment Cigarettes, a lighter, a glass of wine, Little copper washers strung on string. Poetry, (or is it?) being written as I write. 2 cigarettes in an ashtray by a coffee-mug. A poetess in a green-brown dress, and bones. Wine pouring, a bottle’s empty, two are full. Two pens inscribing living thoughts on paper A glass of wine, a wine-glass, and           a pile of poetry and thoughts. Cigarettes, and a box of matches; open.           Matches tucked in bed, like           poor-as-churchmice children. A flare of flame ignites a cigarette           On its journey to its doom. And Pink Floyd fills two pairs of ears, And cheap wine warms two bellies …           And souls. And poetry is happening As these scrawled lines essay to capture it. The artists pursue their doomèd quest;          To eternalize the ethereal.          A portrait of a moment James H Wilson May 19, 1993 -- 11:23 PM copyright 2002 all rights reserved

Poet - ry The would-be poet sits and sips,          and gulps, and waits For poetry to happen -- is this it …          Is this shit? Is he a device to convert alcohol into poetry? Is he full of poetry, but wrapped too tight? In bonds that are soluble in alcohol,          The loosener of tongue          -- and pen          --and morals? And, Yes, it is.  It’s flowing and          The Dead are on the stereo and          The beer is in the belly and          the poetry is flowing -- or is it shit? Tomorrow’s sober light will show. James H Wilson May 24, 1993 -- 11:03 PM copyright 2002 all rights reserved

Poet - ry, II                         (Too) The words don’t come But when the time is ripe, The pen will take the hand …           And write, and it will happen. The thoughts of lo, how many years Are clamoring for their pilgrimage through the pen To paper, where the priv’leged few may read, And share a path of thought. Upon the priv’leged few is pressed the gift To pass on what they are -           Have -                    Feel -                             Know -                                          Live. James H Wilson May 19, 1993 -- 11:23 PM copyright 2002 all rights reserved

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