Painter

By: Victoria G. Smith

 

She is master of light, hunter
of pigments of the sun. Her hand
is dancer on canvas, jump-gliding
to mad motion of creation—mimicking
life, nature, emotion—in brushstrokes
that scream at the soul. There are tiny dots
whose meaning can only be gleaned
from afar, sweeping strokes telling
their secrets only when one stops
long enough to listen, the pastel palettes
hiding the dark stories behind them.
We are but merchants of the canvases
of our lives, but she is the interpreter
of dreams. How wondrous it is that light
can speak in these tones. How heavenly design
can be revealed in a riot of color. Oh, the teals
and crimsons! The siennas and cobalts!
The saffrons and chartreuses! And the everpresent
grays and indigos that allow
the others to shine. How dare she capture
immortality in paltry paint and fabric!
I tell you: She is not of this world!
How could she be? That she could summon
light from shadow, shadow from light?
Wasn’t it the Ancient One who said,
Let there be Light, and there it was? I plant
myself on my feet as my eyes feast
on the banquet she’s prepared of fruitful
harvest and luminous wine; Reubenesque
maidens unashamed of their sex; petty
aristocrats hiding behind gems; regal
plebes working the fields, herding sheep
in pastoral landscape evoking incorrupt,
idyllic home; the artist’s portrait with
the soulful eyes staring, asking, Do you see
me now? A feast that isn’t consumed
by mortal hunger, save by immortal light
from which it was born—that invisible thief
riding the wheels of time, that enemy
of history’s archives that will soon
reclaim everything for the shadows.
Nothing is eternal after all. All is
passing and fading from the light, into
the darkness that swallows color, returning
to the womb of the Creator of creators.

Poet’s Notes. I chose above poem for this merry month initially for the colorful visuals it inspires. Such a colorful month December is. The month of many holidays. A holiday celebrating the beautiful story of the birth of a child who would become the master teacher, preaching love is the only true religion.

And yet other people exploited his story to create a new religion that this master teacher would probably not recognize as arising from him. For it is, as all man-made religions are—a religion that divides men, even inspiring men to kill.

Many say that the contemporary mass killings in Syria, Iraq, Egypt, France, the United Kingdom, and United States are the work of Islamic terrorists. It is easy to blame Islam for these murders done in its name. If so, Christianity must also own up to the mass killings of the Inquisition, the forced baptism of the New World at the point of the Conquistador’s sword, the Salem witch trials and hangings, the killings of gays in Uganda on the basis of dubious passages from the Christian bible, the shootings at Planned Parenthood. There can be no peace without justice, no justice without truth.

And truth has no expiration date. It doesn’t matter if murder was done in the Dark Ages or now. Murder is murder. What a cheerful message at this holiday season, one might say. But was it not Jesus himself who said, “I come not to bring peace, but the sword”?

My pen is my sword. And I know when I write fiction. Question is: Do the creators and followers of the various religions know likewise?

(All rights reserved. Copyright © 2015 by Victoria G. Smith. For updates on her author events & publications, go to VictoriaGSmith.com. “Like” her on Facebook at Author Victoria G. Smith. “Follow” her on Twitter @AuthorVGSmith)