I have forgotten whatever it was
I wanted to say. Also the way I wanted
to say it. Form and Music.
Perhaps it had something to do with - no,
that's not it. More likely, I should just
look at whatever there is
and fix myself to the earth. This wall,
I mean, which faces me over the street.
Smooth as a shaven chin
but pocked with the holes that scaffolders left
and flicked with an overflow-flag. Which still
leaves pigeon-shit, rain-streaks, washing -
or maybe the whole thing's really a board
where tiny singing meteors strike.
How can we tell what is true? I rest my case.
I rest my case and cannot imagine a hunger
greater than this. For marks.
For messages sent by hand. For signs of life.
Ce poème d'Andrew Motion est inspiré d'une peinture de Thomas Jones exposée dans la National Gallery à Londres, dans laquelle Motion s'interroge sur la longévité de la création artistique.
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Complete the gaps with a word from the top to make a summary of the text.
In his introduction to the reading of the poem, Motion comments:
"It's a poem about a painting, not that you need to know it. I think this is a sort of polite form of revenge on Phillip Larkin, whom I greatly liked and wished no, had no revenging feelings about truly. But Larkin was very keen on the idea you should never write poems about other poems or other works of art, other paintings, and like you all I'm sure, I spend a lot of time looking at paintings, and want to write about them sometimes, so, anyway at last I've overcome my Larkin inspired inhibitions about this. In the National Gallery there is a wonderful small painting by the late 18th, early 19th century painter Thomas Jones whose large scale works are rather disappointing but whose small scale works are rather magical."
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