Have you ever seen an Artist at work?
in the throes of passion,
in a state of flow,
Have you watched him twiddle
a pencil between his lip and his nose?
Have you ever tried, to count
the number of lines that
imprison a growing ball of sun,
which radiates and shines
almost like a third eye,
between the peaks of
his brows clenched high -a cloudless sunrise.
Watching an artist play,
is like watching the twilight sky,
running amok in it's grandmother's backyard,
plucking ripe bulbs of juicy palms and plump peaches and
throwing them on a dark canvas,
which then splashes open. with a thick, squishy squelch of
French lavenders and burnt oranges. - a messy beauty
Observing him at work is as if looking at a bud of lotus,
wholly present, drowning in the moment, detached, yet afloat,
with all its focus concentrated, to unfold itself, layer after layer;
emerging in time, inspite and because of all the muck
it rises between - a silent hustler.
And then at times, an artist is a Cark, impenetrable
forest in a threatening rainstorm;
temporarily inaccessible to all the distractions lurking by his fringes;
with a wild tiger in his heart, captive and dangerously quiet,
he is patiently waiting for the art to come alive;
so the animal within can pounce,
and sink its teeth; deep; claiming
his prey with a co-nature of signature of his name.