Yellow Tulip by Bob Martin
three pears by Hanneke van Oosterhout
I’ve been reading Fernando Pessoa, the quite unusual Portuguese poet. I really like the following poem from “The Keeper of Sheep,” translated by Richard Zenith.
Sometimes, on days of perfect and exact light,
When things are as real as they can possibly be,
I slowly ask myself
Why I even bother to attribute
Beauty to things.
Does a flower really have beauty?
Does a fruit really have beauty?
No: they have only color and form
Beauty is the name of something that doesn’t exist
But that I give to things in exchange for the pleasure they give me.
It means nothing.
So why do I say about things: they’re beautiful?
How hard to be just what we are and see nothing but the visible!
Are the two works above about just the visible, or more than the visible?