Best Artiste Poems
People sing in praise of a lead performer;
And the person playing the second fiddle
Often goes unsung and unhonoured.
That is the fate of all such auxiliary artistes, say,
A guitarist strumming the chords—
To keep up the rhythm
Or, as typically in India,
The tambura player,
providing the continuous harmonic drone,
Which no electronic substitute
Can possibly offer—
Not to the entire satisfaction of the audience,
As it would be lacking in timbre and temper.
Yet, comparatively speaking,
There may not be much money in it.
Percussion artistes, on the drums,
The Mrudangam or Tabala,
Are all worse off,
Though they often perform multiple tasks.
Now striking, for instance, a cymbal,
Now a triangle or a xylaphone.
Even the famous Sivamani has got to do it.
They all, however, go about their tasks on the stage
With as much zest as the lead performer—
Yet a Sivamani or a Zakir Hussein
Hitting the headlines, is very rare.
Their presence is hardly noticed,
Though their absence may surely be felt.
Their role is comparable
To that of the squirrel—in the Ramayana,
Which helped Rama,
In its own humble way,
To put up the bridge
(preparatory to his encounter with Ravana)
Across the Palk Strait to Sri Lanka,
And yet did its best.
Such artistes do exemplify team spirit.
They also serve who stand (or sit)
On the stage and do auxiliary work!
***
I am The Artiste.
I draws lines by cutting carcasses, among other things.
I am the crazed dancer, down pouring a diaspora of red essence and entrails as I sporadically spin.
I am the antagonist; the anti-hero jester with a ricin covered knife.
It’s poisoned point thrusted through regal robes; to rest in the fief, flesh and fealty of the king and his knights.
Making a mosaic of the martyred by combat and tactical subterfuge; again and again enacting battles of attrition.
Each successive version of ourselves adjacent to the next, compartmentalized in seclusive panoramic positions held together by Gravitons.
Vacuumed by a stretched string in infinite dimensions; making an Omni-vector to temper the fool.
Ah but I am the axiom of chaotic-kinetic dynamism; I distort lattices and break symmetry.
I am the Goldstone boson & Majorana fermion, I am the Tachyon.
I command my Pions to intersect and form a Rho.
Regimented in units, they leer over fortified Dirac and Neumann boundaries.
A coalition of rebellious Quasi-patrons; under siege by Gauge Synchronicities and Eigenstates.
But I am still my own worst enemy; myself and my anti-self.
When living in a world reborn on God’s Sword & Shield, many of us are left on edge and apprehensive; but we will always die in God’s heart.
From there after our remains are gestated; by the womb of empty space & silence, the true Matriarch Mother of skies.
Lingering laughter brings out loving lines
Within writings which echo warm, wild words
Music - melodies moisten melted minds
Feelings of hearts who flow furiously
Soothing silence, semblance - with sensations
Praises, prayers, poems who penetrate
Attracting aloneness of the artiste
March 24, 2021
The life of an artiste is not a flowing river but an accumulation of its sediments, to give fertility for nature to grow. This fertility is an art of an artiste.
An artiste cannot let go a single fragment of the moments and repressed emotions gathered over the times of the childhood innocence and hard realizations. An art of an artiste should sustain that childlike simplicity and the hardships and everything between them. It should enrich a child's heart and purify the evil one, barring which it becomes an another nuisance of the rich. This is the comprehensive purpose of art and should be an endeavor for an artiste.
He spoke to the sun
Brought the light to glowing
Revealing all the earth
With its many splendors showing
Mysteries beyond belief
He whispered the trees
Into expectant existence
The birds, butterflies and the bees
The joy, faith and promise
Even their fantasies
He breathed life into man
Gave woman her energy
Handed them nature and wildlife
With the promise of a seed
Who would be the child of their dreams
He gave the life to the ground
With assurance that pleasure would be found
Amid the roses, rich and vibrant
Through the hues of delighted sighs
From dewdrop herbs – sage and thyme
He blew out the light
At night when the moon rose
Revealed the lunar legends
Shining down through the heavens
Reaching our wishful reflections
He delighted in His creation
Allowed us to share
His wonders and warmth
With all His heart
He loved and blessed us fully
The artiste, our God
He knew all our wants and needs
Gave us His very best
With a kind and gentle caress
Then, He rested
Artiste
Artiste
But JUDGE please I'm an Artiste. The only thing that eye am guilty of is loving my
country and my flag and having a strong sense of school spirit. The Judge
pondered long and hard and looked so intense it unnerved the bailiffs'
wife. “Graffiti is a crime” the JUDGE intoned I'm sending you to prison for your life.
The courtroom was astonied. You are under arrested and locked away from all
temptation to ever write your name in graffiti letters in the bathroom of the collage
library ever again and further more. “Wait”. There was commotion from the
doorway to the hall. The gremlin was only two feet tall. He said this very fast “do
not send the student to the prison list it was this gremlin that painted this graffiti
on the wall and even though eye am only two feet tall my arm is longer than the
door and eye can paint with my fingernail the ooze comes out of me my finger is
the marker and it pleases me to make a contribution to the cause of causeless
causes on your wall. The bailiff's wife faded and fainted. The Judge was heard a
knocking at his knees and everyone heard his voice though it was very faint. This
is what the JUDGE now had to say. “Release the prison let all the prisoners go
and paint let them mark up all the bathroom walls on every gate and doorway in
the land. The Gremlin has admitted to this crime and taken all the children's
places in his mind. We have the artiste now well in hand.”
SUPPORTING ARTISTE
When I used to tell people I was a film extra, or ‘supporting artiste’ as we preferred to be called, they would say, “How glamorous, mixing with all those stars.” But, of course, the reality is not like that. You get up at 3.00 am in the middle of winter, scrape the ice off the windscreen and drive for two hours to the location. Having queued in the snow for your costume, you then sit all day in a draughty marquee waiting to be called, hoping that you might find yourself near enough to the camera to be recognizable in the finished film. You certainly don’t get to mix with the stars. Once I got a small speaking part and told all my friends to watch out for my big moment. But, alas, it ended up on the cutting room floor.
far in the background
supporting artistes wander
split second of fame
28th August 2020
Let The Pens Flow - Haibun poetry contest
Sponsor - Jenish Somadas
Artiste, she paints in breathless strokes,
Dedicated to the art, the flow,
Colors alive, blushing in bold and bashful caresses,
Lifting the heart, soothing as laughter.
Artiste, she splatters the canvas with hope,
Grace captured on the bare canvas,
Home to so many dashes of light, vibrant and bright,
Quieting the darkness, pouring love out – magnificent!
Artiste, she renders the music over the canvas,
Stirring a spark, the melody so dazzling,
Reaching beyond the shadows, into the lissome,
Polished, poised, promises adorning the blank page.
Artiste, she rescues the moments, changing…,
Heart and soul – from dreary doubts, from doom
Appealing to the wonders, the awe and amazement,
So light softly enchants, peaceful as the snowflake’s fall.
Artiste, she eases every grief – with her flaming brush,
She daubs anticipation into the spirit’s wistful gasp,
Washing all the world in hesitant tints of love – songs
Racing with the wind, inspiring faith within.
Artiste, she lightens her grandma’s load, her blessing,
Murals of gentle dreams, falling easy against the scenes,
Crisp shades move the heart to hear – listen to the peace,
Enthusing the dawn, rousing the stars to glisten like her glossy paint.
Artiste, she is only ten years old, the age when talent –
Is just a twist of the light, a fading color, so bright,
Breathtaking, tumbling from a brush filled with amazement…
Her heart an open book, where God’s love will always look!