Sunday, June 14, 2009

Poetry of My Portraits

The whole day I work with my brush and canvas
I squander a lot of colours like
Violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red
Saturating my six by four space
And robustly endowing it visual trust-

I'm not the God but I want to be
To feed those famished lips in my portrait;
So much misery in the world,
The sorrow of million world links,
How can my six by four hold all of thee-

My hands try hard painting hours after hours
Giving life to a dead man,
Animating a cloth less mother with her kid,
Boosting a pony for its first leap…
Sharing the loneliness of a cursed whore-

Now at last I've rejuvenated the dead man,
The poor mother is now breast feeding her child;
The white pony frolicking over green meadow;
All looks content but the impatient keep-
I've made her helpless without her man-patron…

Conscience pricks me to motivate the man reborn;
And to veil the naked mother with a queenly mantle;
And to call for the mother horse to guard her pony-
Let there be a man on the bed of the waiting mistress,
But I notice the canvases have turned unalterable stubborn-

Only work left for me is to hang them in an exhibition
To nourish my own stomach and creative identity;
While picturing I've thought enough for those needy,
Now my hands are weary, mind is bogged and hungry;
Till my canvases are sold I'll suffer impatient irritation-

Thousand art lovers visit my exhibition –
An intellectual describes the man in his own way,
An economist expresses grief for the nude mother,
A child compares my pony with his comic's character
And a materialist travels to a land of fantasy prostitution-

I return home crediting my fiscal and psychological account
With some inspiration, desperation and aspiration
For stirring my colour soaked brush again over a clear canvas;
In my sleep I sense the divine touch of Jesus and see
Michelangelo portraying me on the Sistine chapel's ground...

- littleWriter

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