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Tuesday, January 25, 2011

The Desire to Be Seen

A few years back, at a time when I began to immersed myself in the art of poetry, the journey of self discovery-- I desired more. I was taken to the Frita Kahlo exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum and was moved by the intensity of her art, by the intensity of her energy, by her pain, and by her unrelenting need to create. No matter what we don't have or what we might think is broken inside ourselves, we are each our own exquisite piece of art. May the diversities of your life create your masterpiece and let peace follow each discovery.

The Desire To Be Seen
The Exhibit of Frida Kahlo

The brevity of the trip, the air is electric,
the momentum of the street, the insanity of the city.
The weight of my person, the white of the lines,
the black of the tar, the mix of our minds.
The art is hiding in frissons of clay,
the woman is in the canvas I seek,
sweat pours out of me; it tells on me this day,
I can be part of her museum.

Eight deep breaths for every realization; I study art.

Art touching art, a broken start,
imprisoned in a wire corset,
naked breast, stabbing pain,
stainless nail piercing her brain.
Is she an impassive goddess?

Art that hangs motionless, whispering voices that rhyme,
effortless flowing of a seeker's sharp mind.
Ethereal lights glow, desires fall to marble floors,
filtered air is shared, her drive for passion is more.
She is skimming my skin, devouring a space that I once owned,
a solitary dance seeks my energy and permeates my soul.
She repaints my mind and imprisons the images I once did hold,
whirling thoughts are blistering each of my lungs.
I embrace my perfect ribs and feel the warmth of my blood.

Eight deep breaths for every realization; I study art.

Stone white column
standing in as her bones.
Anger, hurt, deep knives,
deceit, a drone--
Is it double martyrdom?

I am aware of the dance I am in,
a swift touching crescendo given the chance.
Spinning in spirals, smoothing sharp angles,
I surrender to the contours of me.
Perfect symmetry, rapturously intimidating,
all somehow are consuming me.
I turn and demand to receive her pain,
as I fall prey to her pleasure,
the palatable taste of her energy,
the complexity of her art.

The front of me,
the back of me,
all around me,
molding, moving
through me,
up and down
my spine.
Master of discipline,
life of porcelain.
I should not breath,
my heart, my lungs,
my art, my time.

I surrender and let violence abate; I study art.

Cremating insecurities, releasing demons,
pokers caressing, driven insane,
crippling her mind, abandoning her name.
Broken column, La Columna Rota.

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