What Canvas Told

13 Jan

(Okay, so I thought I’g give this one a little bit of a background. Of late, I have found myself entirely captivated by Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris and Vicky Christina Barcelona. I found his portrayal of art and the artist to be quite interesting. So, the back drop of this poem is the world of an artist, or atleast someone who thinks she’s an artist (because don’t we all today?). Like art, I’ve attempted rather consciously to keep the poem abstract! Do tell me how you like it. Thank you)

Cigarettes brush the flow, 

Alive for that short transitory moment
The moment that follows,
A bare sole takes its life away.
That bare soul, staring on ahead,
A canvas, colours strewn;
Frustration in red. Calm in white.
And yet, this one, in black.
‘What feeling is it?’ asks she
And yet, the colours flow.
With intensity, anger yet emptying itself.
Insanity choosing a new abode.
Canvas it is. In that sheet of black,
What lay behind? The artist would know.
And yet, like the butt on the ground.
Clueless. Its art says she. 
Disappeared, not a thought. Dumped at the back.
But the canvas gnaws at the head. 
The greatest made? Far from it. 
At the top of the mind. Right up.
The canvas. The emptiness filled with darkness.
With it. In it. Filled in music.
Those spanish guitars, with their pain.
That violin with its grief.
And it never happened that it gave any answers.
Only questions arose.
One thing though, the artists aspiration. Shattered.
What did Poe say? Fell in love with melancholy.
She knew it’d happen one day. Earlier than hope. 
What canvas told…She hadn’t dared ask.

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