The portrait

The portrait

 

 

On a gloomy day I found it,

Among a pile of dust and papers.

It stunned me

For my eyes cannot move beyond.

Like a speck of blood

Coughed by a sick women

Its sight drowns me into an abyss

Of fear

And anxiety.

A fuzzy beam of the evening light

Runs right across it –

The portrait,

Dividing the canvas into

Triangles of golden orange and grey.

 

Is he a man?

Or, a woman?

Too much have been left to the imagination.

The artist had slashed his brush

In a hurry

Or fury …

Who knows what!

I readjust my glasses to get a hint

But it betrays none.

The profile of the forehead is

Only a suggestion.

And the eyes, yes

They dissolve my vision

Paralyzing my reason.

Bosoms have disappeared into

A mist of grey and orange

Only to find two clinched hands

Reemerged from the mist

Of golden orange and grey.

 

Strong hands they are

Together they hold the portrait;

Arresting the viewer

Between the eyes and the hands.

As I constantly move between the eyes

And the hands

An illusion is created;

Of pain,

Hunger, anxiety, fear, frustration …

Is it the genius of the artist?

Or, is it just me?

Like the enigmatic smile of Mona Lisa

It entices me, teases me, frustrates me

Seduces me.

 

One hand holds a gun

And the other holds a pen

Dripping in blood.

The tip is in mid air;

It has suddenly stopped writing.

Is the portrait of a poet or a warrior?

Or both?

A rebel, or a reformer?

Is it composing a poem?

Or, ending a life?

Whose blood is it writing with?

Its own or others?

Or, is it trying to decide between the two –

Gun or pen?

 

As I hold up the portrait closer,

Scanning its surface, its contours,

The deep valleys of creases

Over the face of the portrait,

Looking for some answer

Some hint to

What the hell was going on.

The sun is already hidden behind

The western hills,

Dissolving the canvas into darkness

Completely.

Now the questions will haunt me

Through the night.

Another Long, sleepless night;

Of beautiful dreams and nightmares,

Fighting with my own Devil.

When the first light of the dawn breaks

I will look at the portrait

Again.

 

- by

Kshetrimayum Jogendro Singh

December 29, 2009

Austin, Texas.