A rose is the finest art

by Christos Polydorou

wp-image-2059494707jpg.jpegA rose is the finest art
It sets itself apart
from the hoi polloi
of the other fine arts
like music

and its abrupt
ends and starts
and writing,
which drives the knife
straight into the heart;

no, a rose is the finest art,
so, for the duration of this poem,
yes to the glaring water-lilies
of master Claude Monet
(who preferred his Giverny
gardens anyway)

yes to the massive canvasses
of Georgia O’Keefe
exhausting with beauty
of nature and each multipetalfly
petal undulating vaingloriously
within and without itself outside
of every flower in the world, yes, but
to roses: more.

Tiger-lilies,
magnolia tree flowers,
hyacinths,
of course, I’d place them all
in my cart,
but roses, especially,
a rose is the finest art.

Because, as when was
I was a little boy, when I look at a rose,
I forget Shakespeare,
Gertrude Stein,
and all my stars are aligned
in a cliché,

and I fall in love with the elevated, insightful, and inspiring
power
of a rose.
In of itself.
Not as a symbol.

But in of itself.
Trains that run on time.
Into a city both sprawling, and folding in on itself.
Within them, and around them, the trees.
I lose myself in the forests of England,
and find its roses,
and the respect I feel is tantamount
to awe.

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