Untitled (Poetry)

Oh please give each poor daub of paint
an identity — a name for it to own —
if you want to call these abstract orphans Art.

They hang there looking awkward in a line —
bare canvasses unframed — uncared for —
all their unfinished edges showing
untucked like Oxfam hand-me-down shirts.

And no clue to what you — the artist — might
or might not have been thinking
when you slapped on all that red —
should we believe these pigments are alive?

If so, then register the fact and label them
as belonging to you — really
an extension of your love —
not the product of an uninspired mind.

Did they ever touch you?
Can you be so vague — so genuinely detached
from these rough forms and colours
that should have spontaneously grown
from moments of intense
creative ecstacy?

It appears as though you’ve distanced them —
cut them off with no indication
as to where they originated from.

What triggered that desire
to streak a dozen empty spaces
and fill them up with simulated fire?

Not one of them displays true warmth
or passion leaping through it —
each remains a nameless blob —
unrecognized — I can’t connect
however sympathetically
I try to view it.