Time is my canvas and my body the brush and every action a deft and decisive stroke. The palette of my mind holds infinite shades in which my brush is constantly soaked. Now plunged in pleasure now steeped in sorrow now bathed in breathless bliss, but with each daub of paint I constantly know This is me, but I am not this, not this. This life is my painting so lovingly composed and I have painted many, many before but my masterpiece shall be transparent and free and its paintless beauty shall live evermore.
This is a lovely poem. It really makes you think of how much life is delicate...like a painting. The artists are your parents and if they paint too fast the painting comes out quite sloppy, but if you paint it slow and take the time to focus on what you're doing, it will come out as beautiful as can be. When you are a finished painting, the artist will care for you and prepare you to show you to the world.
Ah, I'd been looking out for this poem, since you mentioned it earlier. Glad to finally get to read it. Though the whole poem was great, I really liked this line (not sure why, but it resonates with me somehow): "This is me, but I am not this, not this."
Trippin, I am not surprised you got that line. Make_art had a very different take on the poem than I had when I wrote. Throught he poem, the painter is the divinity within us, the divine consciousness. It is in all things, the painting, the paint and the brush, for they are dependent on it for their existence. Yet they are not it, for it is independent of them. Personally I did not like the last 3 lines very much, they needed to be much more powerful. And trippin, this is not the poem I mentioned earlier. That one never came to light, somehow I couldn't quite find the right words, so I aborted.
Well, even if this wasn't the same poem, it was good all the same. I liked the last lines, but perhaps you're right. Play around with it a bit and maybe you'll come up with something even better.
No offense, but I kind of agree with this notion. At the last couple of lines I noticed that you sort of slipped away from what the body of the piece was explaining. That's usually what makes normal art, great art. People can come about and just stare at a painting or reread a piece of poetry, and come up with their own view of what they see in the painting or read in the poem. Certainly, theirs[view] is most likely to be different then what you see this poem to mean, but somehow many outsider perspectives make sense and it makes you think that it could mean a lot of things. Do you dig what I am trying to say here, man? Oh...lastly, you don't have to call me this. For anyone who cares and would like to refer to me as a friend, just call me "Rigo" (short for Rodrigo[my first name]).
Rigo, I was taking on a very difficult point in the end - the succint explanation of enlightenment, when there is no more birth or action, but a pure peace and oneness with all.
Great first line... Color & view; is maya the mind or the matrix of manifestation, is the immanence of nature conscious and our bubble of perception as a small area of sea-foam... Can living be transcendent?
When we see our painting as specks woven into the infinite the grand tapestry of creation and know that the same hand painted them all... then, yes.
Satyam means truth. param means highest. dhimahi means we meditate upon. "We meditate upon the highest truth." This is from the very first verse of Srimad Bhagavatam, works as a kind of mission statement.
