Always An Artist

I was not a very good artist at the age of ten,

obviously.

I struggled to put on paper 

the thing that danced behind my eyes.

The art that I wanted to make as I grew and changed 

passed over me like an airplane shadow,

gone in a moment, moving 

faster than I could keep up with.

But I am older and faster and stronger now,

and I have caught hold of that thing with both hands. 

Inside me and over me still, there is a force that cries out 

“I am here! I am here!” 

It cries, “The world looks different to me!”

And so my hands have gotten busy 

trying to pull the ‘different’ inside of my head out, 

to sweat it, spit it, slather it on a flat surface,

put it somewhere where I can see it 

and shape it

and confront it. 

These new eyes, these painter’s eyes, 

they delight and confuse me. 

I look at the world in layers.

Purple-bruise under park bench shadow,

I scribble in my Moleskine, 

Matt’s eyes are burnt umber and gold.

What color is the sidewalk in the light? 

My hands a camera, I 

let the world filter through me and out of me.

I am curious like a child:

What color pink is that? 

I am wise like an adult:

That is ugly, move it, change it. 

Suddenly I am more a part of it all than ever, 

and also so removed, an observer, 

a woman with brand-new eyes. 

‘Always An Artist’ by Vera J Kent