Painting Pictures With Words—A Writer’s Journey

Truth be told, art is a far bigger thing than what it’s ascribed to be. Many people suppose “Art”—capital-case A please—to be reserved for those who put paint on a canvas or a chisel to stone. In broader strokes crafts are allowed to occupy the realm of “art”—lower-case a please—but usually not in its high lofty form. As usual, I like to look at things from another eye. I define art as a manifestation of the creative mind, and the creative mind is one that captures the essence of an idea, and interprets it in a manner that moves the soul. So the writer is an artist in the same way a painter is: one uses colors—the other colors words.

So as a person who enjoys telling tales, I find that there are an innumerable amount of ways to express all the things that capture my mind. There is the more ancient form of oral storytelling, which for many years, I enjoyed immensely. Then of course there is the novel, which its novelty I recently embraced in my recent foray into the literary world Valdivia. But then I find when I am most economical, I turn to poetry.

There’s something in a poem’s simple complexity and natural conciseness that is infinitely appealing to me. I could be in the shower and as the water pours over me, so do words. Before they escape me like Houdini, I find myself scrambling for a piece of paper to scribble down these most precious but fleeting thoughts. Or on the train, after glimpsing a face that intrigues me—words, curious and lovely naturally follow.

The thing that I love most about waxing poetic is that I can capture a snapshot of a moment or an impulse and condense its stories into a few succinct lines. By necessity it requires eloquence, and for me, this is when I feel most like an artist.

When I’m in my philosophical mode I say things like this…

I stand naked in the nudity of my flesh

I exhale all that’s impure of me

I inhale all that creates beauty within me

I breathe…oh so gloriously


Or when I’m in a romantic frame of mind…

I want to watch the sun rise

Miraculously in your eyes

So that I may know—at once

All things beautiful


If I’m reminiscing about lost opportunity…

Two eyes intersect

And within seconds connect

Several seconds later

Their destinies impart them to disconnect

I watch love…pass me by


And finally when I rise to the challenge of what I really am. A wordsmith immersed deeply within her craft…

I am not a writer

I am a magician

That dances with perfect words

My metaphors make love to similes

I sensuously simulate the essence of symmetry

By sheer epiphany

I regurgitate symphony

And when you think you’ve captured me

POOF—I reincarnate like a cocoon’s progeny

Watch me…as I start dancing out poetry

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