Poem: The Passing Savant

A genius is easy to find in the hampered mind
where calculations are performed in a heart’s palpitation.
Where the brush strokes caress both synapse and canvas
but verbally speaking they can’t find the words they’re seeking.

Dementia can lead to brilliance –
a stockbroker hears the music of his left hemisphere
and quartets string them to our ears,
but is lost to age and the passing of years.

And the mind is distracted by life refracted
from art to heart
a mother’s death is also the daughters loss
focusing on grief, water colours fade to relief.
As distress marches into the distant past
the fluid strokes return her craft at last.

Doctors are befuddled by the passing savant puzzle
And like the savants themselves, cannot find the words
to explain such momentary gain.
And like savants themselves, they obsess
because like every other disease,
they are sure there is a cure.


3 thoughts on “Poem: The Passing Savant

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