The minimalist aesthetic expresses—and therefore betrays—nothing of those who adopt it. It is a non-statement, a refusal to answer painful questions about the self. The smooth monochromatic surfaces subdue a soul desperate to reveal itself, but terrified of doing so.
Thoughts
On this winter’s morning in the Overberg countryside of South Africa, the low peaks of the Small River Mountain range are laden with sunlit clouds; and in the gentle valleys at their feet, mists enshroud the hills.
I fail to see the point of “poetry” that can only be described as prose impersonating verse. Splitting a few deadpan sentences into separate lines and giving them a whimsical title is an insult to the art form.
Forgotten Fields 