Saturday, March 21, 2015

A poetry on Narcisssim , for the Instagram loving generation. True Art against Likes.




Painter Performer Pleaser

A random thought...on who we are. The selfie loving generation...
We are so obsessed with our selves that we might even ask Charon for a Facebook feedback.
If art is used just as a medium of flattery it loses its value.
Never mind. This story is about Michael not Michelangelo.

A soulful painter who became a performer then just a flamboyant pleaser..



Painter Performer Pleaser

Rustic brushes unrefined art, puerile, yet a true heart.
Engraved on the cave walls, red, these colours sprawl.
His petroglyph tells the stories, of man and his glories.
Michael, the great recalls.
Came fame and fanatics, admirers if you would say,
They became his canvas, his soul was sold.
Cult and rage sublimed, yet the textures faded away,
The art ; cajoled.
Came his highness, a connoisseur.
Impressed he was with the artist.
So he jailed him as his courtier,
A sycophant; enslaved by an egotist.

The patrons left, came the pond,
Hubris or Nemesis we wouldn’t know.
Narcissus, for he drowned himself, he was fond,
Fond of his reflections on eau.
They say a flower bloomed, where he died,
Even heavens lamented, the loss of art.
He could have inspired, if he had tried.
Generations like Michelangelo at start. 
“Of all my great paintings and alluring portraits, what was my best?”
Asks Michael to Charon whilst he smiles and rows.
“Was it the one for the duke, or that painted damsel, in the land far west?”
He stops across Styx, then walks into a cave close.
Rustic brushes unrefined art, puerile, yet a true heart.
Engraved on the cave walls, red, his colours sprawled.
His best told the stories, of man and his glories.
Michael, the great now recalls….

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