The Painter (1996)
Presenting… the first ever piece of poetry I wrote! This was way back in High School (Gr. 10), when I was doing the typical teenage thing, you know, worrying about girls and life and such. (I guess that’s not too different from what I’m doing now, but I digress). I just started writing random stuff down and this is what came out. I had a writing assignment due for English and hadn’t done anything for it and handed this in. Two birds with one stone, eh?
My teacher liked it too, so hey I figured poetry’s not so bad after all… and the rest, as they say, is history (although you may wish I had burned that paper to spare the world the sequence of events producing the cacaphony of word experiments I call ‘poetry’…)
The Painter
Copyright © September, 1996
He came into being,
and started his journey,
on the road,
the road that is life.
As he grew,
so did his perceptions,
and he saw the colours,
all the colours of the world,
Until they faded and died.For him, then, the road was gray,
black winds scoured it,
dark clouds covered it,
cold rain fell on it,
biting at his resolve.
Sometimes, so rarely,
the sun would shine through.
He trudged onwards,
having nothing better to do,
never hurrying,
never slowing,
walking the road,
fighting the wind,
tiring of the bleakness around him.
Then he learned to paint,
to paint the world with his mind,
so he drew colours,
from where he thought none were,
and he wove them,
molded them,
blended them into his world.
Yet it was but illusion,
fading when he stopped to look,
fading into the gray it once was.
So he chose to paint forever,
to give up the gray world,
your world,
to live in his.
There, he is Creator,
he paints all the colours,
and the patterns,
and it is real,
for him.
Always he remembered,
not to paint much gray.
Then something drew him back,
to the barren world of howling winds,
the world that, to him, was dead.
He had met her,
and while he wasn’t watching,
she lit a fire,
a bright, all-consuming fire,
in his heart.
She was beauty,
she was colour.
She painted his world
with her smile,
and the fire in him burned.
His world, the one he had painted,
paled beside the hues she brought,
simply with her presence,
so he left his world.
He cherished the fire within him,
let it burn,
and watched it,
so it would never go out.
He strove to light one in her as well,
but he knew not how,
for all he knew was paint,
and in this world,
his colours were but illusion.
He despaired in his ignorance,
and in his despair,
forgot his vigil,
and the fire in him died.
Even as he strove to light it,
he saw,
for he was no longer blinded,
blinded by the flames.
He saw that their paths had been diverging,
had never been the same.
The colours that she painted,
had not been meant for him,
and without the brightness,
without the flames,
they were pale, they were gray.
She was a mere spot,
hinting at colour,
in the gray,
and vanished,
when she wished.
Painful it was,
to see her go,
even though she had never been his,
and he painted for her,
a last memento.
He painted better than he had before,
for he painted best in the gray.
She did not even see it,
and this pained him more.
He bore the pain,
and swore,
he would never feel it again.
Then he painted a wall,
a wall so black,
so high,
to let no one by.
It was a wall of solitude,
a wall to keep him in,
and others out,
a wall without colour.
And he took his paints,
and returned to his world,
leaving the one dead to him,
and tried to bring the colours back.
But in his absence, even here,
the colours had fled,
and he despaired.
He let the colours run,
and came back to your world.
Now, they were both the same.
He stared at the blank blackness of the wall,
and lost his colours in the darkness,
he forgot how to paint.
Other spots of colour pass him,
and he sees them not.
They see him,
see him with pity,
but the wall turns them away.
A part of him sees this,
and smiles sadly.
Pity is not what he wants,
not what he needs.
He wants colour,
the brightness of love,
to banish the darkness.
He wonders why,
why he is so alone,
and weeps in the darkness,
wishing someone would break down his wall.
He longs to paint again.
