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Friends admire

the new painting

hanging a little cramped

above my corner desk

 

then fall back

on my bed with laughter

in an erruption

of unswallowed tea,

 

‘Are you insane?’

It’s not a question.

Three months rent.

It only lives

 

in my bedroom

because I have no lounge

or such

to call my own

 

It’s slightly akward

to be honest

this intimacy

for I know enough

 

of creativity to recognise

the artist has parted

with nothing less

than a tangible extraction of his soul

 

for a mere ninety days

of roof over my head,

and so in playful moments

I ask my new acquisition

 

if it too might like

a cup of tea

(which is both foolish

and ironic if you saw it)

 

for I know its aliveness

is not so crudely sated

and so I sing

to it sometimes

 

and deceive myself

into believing

I see the paint sparkle

just a hint brighter

 

while I’ve turned siren

and my song

calls the waves

boldly towards me

 

from a sea that’s wet

only beyond the canvas

 

 

This poem was inspired by a brief visit to http://www.castlegalleries.com/ in Exeter, where I’ve come for some cultural immersion and get away from it all day offness. Hope 2016 has begun well for you all –

 

Blessings,

 

Harula x

 

P.S. And no, I haven’t yet bought a precious painting, but you might be able to tell I kind of like the idea…

 

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