Oscar Wilde says that "the artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim... There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written, that is all. "
I would like to add that a poet can be an artist too, when poems do follow the same rules. A poem can elevate or demean, praise or insult, but it will still either be well written, or badly written. That is forever the reflection of its creator, and never a reflection of the subject. Whether it is charging light brigades or ancient mariners or prisoners in Chillon or talking ravens, the subject always bends its will to the beauty in the form. If a poem insults to gain revenge, or praises to win a love, or aspires for historical accuracy, it ceases to be art, and the poet ceases to be an artist.
This poem is really just a bit of fun with words, it might be construed as insulting, but the insults are subject to the form, and, as such, are far away from slander.
"Hitherto Reason gone"
Hitherto Reason gone
Wherefore I lost my way?
what fool to think it sun,
which brings no light of day!
for when in you shall shine
a perennial fiery light
of truth, forever my sign :
The darkness of the night!
No flower but a thorn
as needles is your sway
A needle, I won't mourn :
where is my stack of hay?
By Comte Almaviva
I would like to add that a poet can be an artist too, when poems do follow the same rules. A poem can elevate or demean, praise or insult, but it will still either be well written, or badly written. That is forever the reflection of its creator, and never a reflection of the subject. Whether it is charging light brigades or ancient mariners or prisoners in Chillon or talking ravens, the subject always bends its will to the beauty in the form. If a poem insults to gain revenge, or praises to win a love, or aspires for historical accuracy, it ceases to be art, and the poet ceases to be an artist.
This poem is really just a bit of fun with words, it might be construed as insulting, but the insults are subject to the form, and, as such, are far away from slander.
"Hitherto Reason gone"
Hitherto Reason gone
Wherefore I lost my way?
what fool to think it sun,
which brings no light of day!
for when in you shall shine
a perennial fiery light
of truth, forever my sign :
The darkness of the night!
No flower but a thorn
as needles is your sway
A needle, I won't mourn :
where is my stack of hay?
By Comte Almaviva
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