Ralph Simpson & Mihku Paul
Thrall
Six fingered sepals reach outward, lilting curves cupped and graceful, as if to weave the air. Strands of altered cellulose, water nourished, earth origins grown from Sol's bright fire. A new vessel formed, man's harmony from perceived discord, the striated map tight and well planned. Time will change everything and nothing but perception. We know the blue world that birthed us is shifting, struggling. The plants do not always return in spring. Still, we gather together the pieces; brown, red, green echo of chlorophyll, yellow memory of flowers We will always be simply a part of the whole, caught in the weaving, our imagination the engine that drives the making, enslaved by a desire to capture all the beauty we have been born into.
— Mihku Paul
Pomegranate
Most Ancient One, you are called, centuries of bearing witness. Born of the sun-splashed dry places, Years in the making, slow in the ripening. Patience required. Nature's own invention of waiting. So much of being human is this ask. Some have called you fruit of the dead, a stubborn tree, insistent in its survival, risen from the incarnadine blood of Adonis. For millenia you've been cultivated, they say. Fruit of our labors, gnarled and twisted limbs that give forth ruby jewels, little souls trapped inside Purgatory. indurated seed, enclosed with juicy sweetness. Now, as these Persephone days creep in, I remember the stories; how she ate of the crimson fruits, was forced to reside in the Underworld for one third portion of the year, returning to earth in Spring. Fruition defined is the attainment of anything desired. I have become the fruiting tree now, completion and renewal. I hear the words of Seneca echo; "All art is but imitation of nature."
— Mihku Paul
Info
About / Au sujet de
Ralph Simpson
Mihku Paul
Category:
Date:
February 8, 2022
