Poem: What is Art?

By Dave Hood

It’s a representation of  pleasing portrait,
Still life of sunflowers standing in a vase
memorable landscape of crimson
autumn leaves falling from maple trees.

It’s an abstraction crafted
of circles, squares, amorphous shapes,
Rainbows of colour.

It’s stream of consciousness,
A manifestation of the mind’s eye,
a dream like Salvador Dali’s surreal
paintings.

It’s Annie Liebowitz’s vision
Captured in a digital photograph
Of a model, movie star, famous person,
Someone, anyone in the public eye.

Some people say, “art is anything.”
Like a concept,

idea born from thoughts
traveling into, out of the mind,

revealing something
Significant about man’s

 basic nature, the human condition
Society in which we inhabit.

Some Art confuses, confounds
like a Rubik’s cube,
or amuse with whimsy like a cartoon,
shock as if a stranger’s

engaging in some sort of taboo,
mocks like the pop art of Warhol,
even screams as you stroll past.

Other art is a rerun of a b-movie,
somebody’s found object,
a ready-made, picked out of the dump,
constructed as if it were a masterpiece,

displayed in an art gallery.

The best art is an everlasting memory,

pleasurable moments in time,

one of life’s simple pleasures

delights as though strolling on a sandy beach

watching a golden sunset disappearing

into the deep blue sea,

inspires you to make a purchase, hammer a hook,

adorn a wall in your abode for visitors to view,

“wows” you like driving a black Lamborghini

at high-speed on the Autobahn.