I saw a painter
squeeze paints on a wooden palette
creating coloured mountains held in a hand
before dipping in the brush and smearing
across a white canvas.
Yet, no matter how hard they tried
how furious or delicate the strokes
whatever lines or marks they made
the place where the colour was kept
seemed to be the art.
To watch those mountains merge
making shades that had never been seen
and likely never will again
creating a world of intention
by simply getting up and trying
by simply hoping something good would come
by setting up the easel
by squeezing out the paint –
that seemed to be where all the meaning
was kept
that seemed to be
the art.
Andrew Hall is a ginger-haired disabled writer and alternative film poster maker from the United Kingdom, and he finds that whole situation simply hilarious. His poetry and short stories have been published in various places such as Magma Poetry, Variant Literature, and Owl Canyon Press – he can be found on Twitter: @CripOnATrip21 and Instagram: @CripOnATrip