This, too, is Art

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Dance in Blue Flame by Iphios

This, too, is Art©

by Iphios

I wish you were like art

Where your language is buried beneath me

Waiting for the stroke of my hand

To make shapes on empty canvas

Taking form to an understanding

A translation from you to me

To mine.

Even in your anger—raging

Through you, I see it form into splatters

Of black and greys bleeding through

Red paint, where I stare

As paint dries and your emotion

Hang open for my interpretation

Then, slowly, as if approaching

To dance with this openly spoken

Visual language I caress the surface

Feel the bumps of paint and

The roughness of canvas

Beneath my fingers

Learning to speak in touch

With skin against dried emotion

Learning to understand you.

But you are not art,

You are quiet, seething

With heavy curtained eyes that leaves

Me, too often, guessing

Second guessing in the infinite

Manner of monotones

And shapeless sounds forming

Against your palate.

My hands hang, suspended

Unable to form images

Against the empty canvas

Of your inner world—unable

To make translation, feeling

Nothing beneath my skin

Despite my wishing,

Wishing you were like art

And in the peril of seeking what I know

In the crevices of your geometry

I let my hands discover you—

Skin tone, warmth

Beating chest, unsteady breath

Learning your language

Wondering if this too could be art.

A dance of bodies, push and pull

Resistance in anger, softness in

Joy and colors that escape in sounds

That burrow deep, chesty

Or tinkling across life’s empty spaces

Telling me :

this is art–

The compromise between

Our bodies and

The empty sheet

I try to fill.

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Published by

Iphios

There are too many boxes I have been placed in. I choose to live outside of them. To say there is a singular word to capture the plurality of a person is to not understand the person.

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