Pictorial representations have always given me vigour to write . This untitled work above, by Rose Mary Boehm, hence, literally gave my creative powers ‘wings’ to write the following poem.



Freedom is what dreams
provoke in me
to wear this skin
without resorting to the
masque of make-believe.

Freedom is the spindle
from which spools a parallel wish;
one where even a begrudging ‘yes’
allots me room to breathe
and make legible my words.
Better now to court
the attention from critics
who watch me part curtains
and launch into an unusual,
unbroken soliloquy
than sycophants
who picture me
solely as a ventriloquist.

This is my life
as the ‘Birdman’
dressed in suffocating cotton mass
but never as mobile or serene
when personifying all I have to
as now.

The metaphor for every stage
is to be heavy with skill
and fecund nerves.
But when the body moves
independent of a thousand glares
and the dome of the spotlight,
that’s when the artist separates
and becomes a being.

The art of becoming a bird
is subtle.
You have to align the humility
of being nature’s paragon
with beseeching all the
innocent sparks sold to the world.

The world’s a stage.
One’s own flight there has to begin
with nimble steps
and a face
towards the sun
and the moon,
this is the day
when the ‘act’ becomes deceased
and true form takes birth.


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