Tender

This is

Tender territory

We are in

They took all

The beauty from

My storehouse

Drained me dry

Vampires lurking

Now it comes

From a place

Only capable of

Giving it away

Anything I’ve tried

To keep for myself

Just an invitation

For taking

I’m so tired

Chipped vessel

Filled up by

Rage and loss

In exchange

For my vital

Life force

Poetry is

The only thing

I’ve made for

Myself

But still, cowering

Anticipating

What’s losing one more

Beautiful thing

Inside me

Cannot paint unless

It’s for someone else

Cannot dance unless

No one is looking

Singing only in solitude

Playing on repeat

A song that speaks

Like bards of old

Entrancing

Downtrodden peasants

Transported away

From suffering’s

Bony digits

This song points

A gnarled finger, poking

Scars still burning

When traced

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Author's notes:

I wrote this one a while ago and then promptly forgot about it. Rekindling my love of painting came back last year because I wanted to make a portrait of an aging pug for a gift. After that, I was inspired by a character in a story, and now I'm working on a conceptual piece that embodies my dear friend. The funny thing is, there's no impetus inside me to make something just for myself. Perhaps it's more about connection and I'm just choosing the medium for expression. As I was reflecting I realized it's because a part of me is still afraid good things will be taken from me if I make something desirable. So I just give it away in my heart, or in real life before that can happen - a way of controlling loss.

Now, after rereading this poem, I know this is untrue. The soul intrinsically understands we cannot hold onto anything for more than a moment. Ego desperately grips anything that makes us feel unique, important, or powerful. I believe art can and should be made from heart's well and shared from the same place.

When I used to believe in god, I loved prayer because it was submission; relinquishing ego and fear in favour of trust and absolution. After losing faith I was bereft of this comforting ritual. After much meditation and reflection, I came to realize that prayer is not an external communication with a spirit - it is a way of accessing the truest and deepest part of oneself, beyond ego and fear.

In this way, perhaps it is possible to see art as a philosophical exercise. Instead of taking/giving/sharing/losing, art in all its forms is a way of letting go, trusting, connecting, and submitting to the flow of time and universal truths.

Saturday musings, as I avoid work in favour of meandering through complex thoughts...