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)
