When the Soul Holds a Brush
I once saw a soul hold a brush—
when my eyes first fell in love
with the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
Michelangelo, with the sweep of his hand,
took me through space and time,
into a cathedral of bliss
painted upon the heavens.
When I dreamed of the Mona Lisa,
and tasted the silence
of The Last Supper,
I woke asking—
Was Leonardo da Vinci a man,
or the myth the gods paint
into our dreams?
Time unrolled its canvas,
and 1889 wrapped me in its swirling night—
The Starry Night.
I whispered, “Is Vincent van Gogh gone,
or has he only moved into the light?”
In Spain, I searched for Pablo Picasso.
They brought me Guernica—
its cries frozen in fractured forms—
and Cubism leaned close to say,
“Some men are too vast
for one dimension.”
I wandered further,
until Claude Monet stood before me.
No words—only a gift:
Impression, Sunrise.
Its breath still warm,
its light eternal.
Raphael appeared,
soft yet unyielding.
For five centuries, he said,
his art has been a pillar in the temple of beauty.
When he placed Madonna in the Meadow
into my hands,
I wept.
The Venetian school bowed low
and whispered, “Titian.”
Before Bacchus and Ariadne,
I turned away—
fearing my heart might shatter
beneath such beauty.
And so I called out
to the gods of talent:
“To all the artists—
you who bend reality to your vision—
you have made the impossible breathe,
and turned the world’s imagination
into something we can touch.”
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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