Monday, May 05, 2008
Painting

This is a poem my friend wrote for English class...I think it is so lovely, so I decided to share it with you. I wish you could hear it read outloud, it's so much more effective, but for now, take some time and soak up the truth of the words.

Painting
I’m drowning in red.
Can no one see I’m coughing? I’m choking.
I barely breathe.

And then I draw,
I’m moved.
Slowly, cautiously at first.
Allowing the tomato coloured paste to ooze from me.
It feels good, it feels familiar
And I begin to rest in this motion,
In this colour.

Suddenly it begins again,
That violent shake I’m sure I’ve felt before.
I’m dabbed, my body is throbbed again.
I’m losing too much red.
I was fond of this color!
I liked it as it sat here on me,
I got used to the smooth flow of its texture across my limbs.

Swiftly I’m moved off the page.
I feel like I’m free falling,
And for a moment I forget my newfound self pity.
I’m plunged into water so cold that my lungs feel as though they might implode.
It hurts again.
For goodness sake,
What could this torment possibly be good for?
I catch myself asking that question over,
And over,
And over.

The water rushes through me, past me,
I’m sloshed, swished, slammed up against glass walls.
The comfortable crimson is being stripped from every gape in my body.
Every trace of that former rouge is firmly rinsed
As I pray for oxygen.

I feel the beat of my motion,
And in a fleeting moment I question the origin of this madness.
There must be a purpose.
Who is holding me firmly with my head under water like this?

Finally, I’m up out of that prison.
Rid of that uncomfortable place,
But I know this isn’t over.
I’m dipped slowly into green and brought to the page,
Again I give of this color I wear.
I add to the vague memory of my prior colour,
My former struggle with that crimson shade.
With hesitation I allow the emerald to seep deep into the page
And off of my body.

I begin to feel something beautiful.
It grips me by the throat and sings to my blood shot eyes.

This must be beauty
This must be grace
This must be forgiveness
This must be meaning and purpose.
I can hardly breathe as the artist lets me glimpse
At the life he has been creating.

It is only for a moment and the image is gone.
The illustration slowly fades from my memory..
…I don’t mind.
I am captivated by the thoughts of the Beholder,
The One creating raw life and loveliness.
This must be peace.

An astounding relief washes warm over me,
I am learning not to fear.
I will encounter cold water again and again,
And the colours still awaiting application.
I remain in anticipation of the unknown.
For now I must simply trust in my position as the tool…
and not as the Beholder.

Labels: Poetry, Spiritual Life