An Ode to an Artist

Isn’t it ironic
that often
an artist,
who breathes,
dreams
and shares
his art,

is remembered
eons later,
by flowers
placed
upon his
grave,

and I wonder
if he ever later,
visited that wall,
where his work
in a frame,
owned it all,

an entire
building,
christened
with pride,
as his
very own
hall of fame,

did his fingers twitch
did his eyes well up,
did the memory
of a past,
silently
brush across,

a familiar
fleeting feeling,
taking him back
to the confines
of what
was his
little space,

standing there now,
as one
of the crowd,
did he remeber
the strokes,
that they
so
knowledgeably,
discuss today,

the colors,
the pallettes
the revolutionary
techniques,
and then
the mystery
of the painted
muse,

did he
remember,
his once
empty pockets,
and what
they are worth
to the world
today,

who is to know
and who is to say,
for art reveals,
itself
over time,
and artists
are bound,
by their
limited stay.

© vidursahdev 2018

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communications

Pic : Self

in this lost
world

bounded
by thin air

any two
talk

word
to word

and i remain
in awe

of you
the artist

for you
converse

verse
to verse

from an
unknown world

to an
unknown world.

————–

Vidur
07Dec17

d a n c e

Artwork: Self

dancing
the roles
that
you play
everyday,

to songs
that may
be yours,
but often
are another’s,

forgetting
yourself,
as you swirl
in monotonous
motions,

till the head
starts spinning,
faster
than your
feet can match,

unable
to keep up,
you fall,
collapse
into yourself,

and if its
exhilaration
you feel,
you can
be sure,

you danced
through life,
to music,
which was
your own.

——————

Vidur
08Jun17

t w i n s

vases.jpg

 

twin vases
the same potter,
unsuspecting clay
beaten
kneaded
hand molded,
sun dried
wood fired
in kiln,
painted
coated
a liquid glaze,
fired again
to achieve
the protective
skin.

now stand
displayed
on a comparative
stage,
one smooth
inspite
of its
chronicled age,
untarnished
luminous
its gleaming
glaze.

the other
veined
with numerous
cracks,
held together
by the
sheer will
to survive,
tiny spaces
exposed crevices
artistically
filled,
with strokes
of love
from random
hearts.

one,
impeccable
in its
stature,
still shiny
almost
seeming
immortal.

the other,
rustic
mystic
worn,
but full
of stories
of life
to tell.
———

Vidur
30Jan17

D a m n e d

Venus De Milo.jpg
Venus De Milo by Alexandros of Antioch

Alone in a corner
amongst famous art
stood a sculpture
with broken arms
gathering dust
from the
daily visitor treads
the dreaded cover
now aged
with cracks
unable to stop
the flying specs
but beneath
the ignored dusty stone
lay a beating heart
wishing on the hands
that carved her so
to magically mend
this incapacitated plight.

In the darkness
that defined
every lonely night
one full moon
heard her yearning sigh
with a chuckle
not only did it
put back the two
but added to them
a hammer
and a chisel
leaving the stone
it said
with a smile –
your heart is good
now work with
these repaired two
for now
they too have
the gift of life.

It was strange
for the stone
to have moving arms
but she knew
there was a reason
for that
liberating night
lights out
doors locked
the sound
of the hammer
in cahoots
with the chisel
became a daily
secretive exercise
she chipped
and she chipped
adding her bits
to the accumulated
dust around.

By the time
they came with their
‘beyond repair
so sentenced to death’
the cover
had crumpled
the dust was gone
at her feet lay
a weary hammer
a worn out chisel
she had changed
herself so
that even they
who knew her once
seemed so sure
this was not
that work of art
which had been
written off
as damned to die.

——————–

Vidur
01Dec16