Pain, the engraving artist With his piercing pen etches on its body The feeling of pain Chiseled in, shapeless words appear all over Spreading out, pausing, moving again The carving appears in circles, triangles, and digital figures A spiders’ web on its skin, muscle, and coat of hair It makes the stricken one Contract and expand its body in turn. Flailing its body, pulsating, quivering Trembling and throbbing now with its belly up Whimpering and calling in a symphony of pain It opens one eye and looks pathetically at me. Pain, I know, is the supreme artist Whether as an engraver or as a wheezing patient Shuddering in the throes of death The artist and his work of art Become unified in the realm of pain. Pain is a maestro, a virtuoso in its art A Dali, a Pablo Picasso, a Beethoven Or a Mozart – and many more like them Would never reach the finesse of nature itself Working on the body of a dog Its head crushed under a car, Dying a painful death in my lap. “There are no parallels between Art and Nature,” say I. *(Culled from my collection of poems A VAGRANT MIRROR 2011, published by Trafford and available online from the publishers as also from Amazon.com)
PAIN, AN ENGRAVER: Satyapal Anand
