Eyes of An Artist, Words of a Madman by Gauri Kumbar

I wished to start at the point of destruction 

Preferably pressing a pen into my pupil 

For you see it doesn’t take a doctor to tell you the eyes wouldn’t cut 

No. 

Instead membrane would rip off and lose itself in the very cavern of my skull

Dissipating like a melody into a song 

However all songs are not lovely and the writ of a writer is not that of reason 

Sometimes they ramble because every thought is rushing through their head at the pace of molasses 

Bleary eyed slow passing images have distorted the language in me And the fault can only fall to my “artistic vision” 

So to break is to reclaim part of my honesty 

Because despite the hands that write it a truth is the essence of of writing Or perhaps good writing. Without honesty words are lifeless 

The minute we gift them part of our experience they animate 

And may live on to write the eulogy of their creator 

Creators that the public bows their heads to 

Not in respect of but in awe 

These poets write in tongues which us mortals edge on our toes to touch How ever did they see a girl’s cheeks as a rose? Why are they right? How come I only see pink? 

When I put paper to pen paper shreds

Or maybe ink explodes? 

Again the shards of a failed composition pierce my vision, yet never the haze Haze. Haze. Haze 

When will I meet the intellectual that lives inside me 

Three l’s in intellectual 

Two are emphasized 

The last hangs out in the discount bin 

Along with my intellect 

Assuming it exists 

All my words will dance with the shallow honesty of naivety For I can write down the image on an eye 

Without ever telling you what I see 

I am deprived every day of my chance to sing 

Because my tongue hangs limp 

Curving to catch any tears that may fall at the sight of true art I am depraved. Every day I pant hot breath onto each mastery of life Either to destroy it or absorb the lingering skill, I do not know. At one point it finally dawns on me that I have no tact as a poet. Just blunt fingers stumbling to tell you 

I see color. 

Blobs of color 

It’s beautiful and pure and clear and exists solely for me 

Alas, I am not enough of a writer to show you 

So I will self-deprecate and then self-mutilate

I will stab out my eyes 

And truly forfeit any delusion of artistry