Do We Need A Canvas? Poem by M D Dinesh Nair
Do We Need A Canvas?
Where is my canvas?
Where are my brush and the bottles of black and white paints?
Friends, artists and painters,
I too want to paint.
I see your canvases larger and brighter,
I see your brushes made of feathers of peacock,
And you all sitting with a hundred bottles of paints of all colours.
My canvas cannot be torn apart,
My brush is not for cleaning the drainage either
And my paint ought not to be thrown into a pyre.
Friends, artists and painters,
Have you finished your painting?
I next see your fingers growing larger than the canvases,
I now see your brushes buried in the bottles
I then feel your paints spreading across the white screens.
An image of reality splashes across the sky
A strange hand of truth is painting there
And the bottles of reason and season ever get filled and emptied.
Who can be just a painter here?
As each of us is always painted upon
By time the immortal?
A strange hand of truth is painting there And the bottles of reason and season ever get filled and emptied. World is creation of a strange hand of truth and we are the painted objects. Nice painting. Thank you.
Who can be just a painter here As each of us is always painted upon By time the immortal This poem is just beyond words, enjoyed it thoroughly....
Dear Valsa madam and Shahziaji, though through contrasting views you both have honoured my poem here. Valsa maam, I am referring to an unknown hand using a brush on the canvas and how quickly have you assumed it could be that 'God' in all probability as well? . 'He' must thank you for that. Thank you for your comment. Shahziaji, your reference to Virginia Woolf1s handling of Lily Briscoe is a bit above the level I used to be afraid of Ms Woolf as the question still runs rounds Who is afraid of Virginia Woolf? . John Ashbery is not one much estimated by me for want of prolific reading. Thanks a lot for your comments. Mary Amrutha, you are welcome back
The voice speaking here sees its own limited resources or limitations as compared to others...the problem of a painter runs from the conception to the accomplishment of the image on canvas...your problem is likened to the problem of Lily Briscoe in virginia woolf, who asked like ur first question, Where to begin that is the question! ! ! ...and it reminds me of The Painter by John Ashbery, who wanted to paint something new and his subject was the Sea...and being unable to paint such a furious subject his canvas remained blank...for he admitted himself that he was crucified by his own subject... but these lines show that you are not willing to be crucified... My canvas cannot be torn apart, My brush is not for cleaning the drainage either And my paint ought not to be thrown into a pyre. the struggle shows...sooner or later! i don't know i'm right or not but the poem is good for its consistent and logical imagery...poets and writers have been using the canvas and brush imagery for life! ! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/17/2024 3:27:38 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Reading this poem, I am reminded of the famous lines of Omar Khayyam ; ''The Moving Finger writes and having writ, Moves on; nor all your piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears blot out a word of it. Yes, we cannot control events, but events control us. Also we cannot be painters here, but we are painted upon! A strange hand of truth is painting which people like me identify as God's hand! Dinesh, I am sure you mean something different! It is interesting that you see yourself, as a lone warrior fighting against odds while others thrive! You imagine your canvas empty, while others with colourful images on theirs! I think you enjoy being a fighter against all odds! Enjoyed the poem! !