The portrait of an artist, as a young woman,

Last month,
When she asked me
To pay a visit
To her studio thirteen,
I was not sure
What to expect,
For she usually does not make a call,
For her artworks keep her busy from morn to nightfall,

And God knows why,
She has a way of knowing my
Yes and no,
As if she has been residing in my mind and soul,
For years,

Last month,
When she asked me
To make a visit to her studio
I was not amazed,
Not amused,
I thought she needed something,
And I would be her errand boy,

I went
To her place,
Straight to her room,
Where canvases she kept, hanging, piled,
Abrupt sudden like
Her dreams burst,
Full of variety of colors,

Colors were on her face,
Colors were on her simple white dress,
Colors were there on her nails,
Colors hung loose from her cheeks and brows,

'What this time?'
I asked her,
Looking she a bit demurred,
'Well, thought of a project,
You might me into that help...'
Saying this she
Unraveled a canvas
Before me,
Full of abstract designs
Made out of lines,
Taken, I thought, from all those proses and poems
Which I had given her just for art's sake,

I stood there really amused,
Her paintbrushes how had made me her muse,
While my words all through
Searched her.


Popular posts from this blog

Like sleepy , a lullaby...

The Palm Tree*

What a sunshine, what a sky,