howmanynames is a good question.

 

but as far as Views on Art -

there are way more than 3.

 

the view depends on the time - historical period -

and it also depends on locationlocationlocation.

the East?  or the West?

& above, or below, the Equator.

 

views on "Art" are mercurial.

 

nice poems, not crummie at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Again in my mind, to get some hopeful understanding of this three part poem, I had to view the title and the word Art as Love ( holding the meaning that love is art for it is how you apreciate it and wether you can enjoy it's beauty. )

 

Yet, can one recognize its beauty?

 

Well, with the three tips you have shared with us, you give one hope in recognizeing its form in " 3 views of Art."

 

The first section; Hopelessly in Love

The second section; For twenty five years holding self and the others beauty at best.

The third section; When what appears from outsiders that all the beauty is gone, it has actually arrived at it's ut most form decifered only as music to the two loves ears.

 

Even though you may have other directions with your words above, I can see it total from title to the last line in this manner. Making this an interesting poem and well written to me.

 

From, Enchantress

 

from For the Marriage of Faustus and Helen (1923)

 

just to clarify the Crane quote.

 

 

 

 

 

finally, does it touch you.

that's a question.

Yes, in the ribs when I laugh, in the gut when I cry and in the seat of my pants when I wonder.

 

I don't think this has been about classification or in the case of Helen's thread, about definition. To quote, out of context, from the Prof's original piece: "...we were entirely out of boundaries and there I found a world so empty..." It is the naming of things we so feverishly attend. The identification of boundaries, fences, processes are the grist of the development of any work.You quite rightly direct that we need to think for ourselves and I submit that that is what happens as we name a thing like meter or prose or rhyme for a day, for the moment. I am pretty sure that yesterday, what I was able to read or see was defined by yesterday's ability to understand, yesterday's ability to apply the tools of comprehension I possesed at the time. Through exposure to other's opinion and criticism, I expect to read and see differently tomorrow. We are never alone in the bleachers and are enevitably enfluenced by those in front, to our right or left. Today I can read Lowell with a limited but often surprising sense of having "gotten" something: Sounds twisting an emotion, a jamming of words that suddenly are so apt, I could not have imagined it described in any other way. This is today. Four years ago I would turn a page and not a damn thing would happen, not even a hmmm. So what changed? The work is the same, nothing about its classification has changed, no new rules disecting prose from poetry have come to light. The author is dead, so he hasn't been meddling with it. What changed is what we bring to the reading, what we have learned of the fences, of the lights, the sounds and the boundaries. Often we even explore what is not said. Willie Mays was once asked how he was able to catch all those seemingly impossible balls flying into the outfields. He answered that the fence made it easy. It created a reference that helped him judge where the ball was going. I think attempts to name, define, rearrange and even momentarily glorify, help explore and uncover new ways to hear, to see, to think.  I never learned anything by reading something with which I agreed.

 

Or at least it seems that way today.

 

larry

yes, larry.

 

we do bring something.

experience.

 

that changes daily.

 

and what is meaningful at one point in our lives, may not be so in a different light:  on a different day.  or in a different place.  that timeline of living - has an infinite number of points.  but it is a curved line, bell-shaped -- not linearstraight.

 

nomenclature helps us recognize what we see on a page.

humans have this habit.  we like to name things.  we build words.

we love words.

that does not make it art.

 

 

So,

again,

with the Tale Of The Pear Tree...

So long since it first bore fruit,

and so long since, so

few times in the telling,

 

no sense,

like leaves drifting down on a body with nothing between God and the Nude,

but the sun...

 

Leaves from that pear tree as it took up root

and went its way on up...

You know the tale entails a dear, dear friend,

and at some points,

just a random unknown...

you are sooo random.

just out of curiosity - which Pear Tree tale are you referring to?

enquiring minds want to know.