“I Am Not A Fast Painter” A Poem

This poem is about being a painter, and it’s not.

I Am Not A Fast Painter

I am not a fast painter.
I do not splish or splash
or flash my brush around.
No, my marks are small but,
sharp; consistent & deliberate.
Darting like a heron or egret’s beak,
searching for snails buried in a muddy
bank, on a sprawl of spring-fed lakes.

I am not a fast painter.
Sometimes, I swear I stare for
minutes on end, expanding my
lungs before taking another
great plunge. Strokes that do
not know how to skim the surface,
but were always focused on diving
deeper into the ancient mists.

I am not a fast painter.
There is no timecard to sign.
No punching in nor out.
I am always on the clock;
always on-call to my higher self,
Who you might see as a “boss.”
And it knows better than all, that to
be a dedicated artist means often
stepping out for a long, long walk.

I am not a fast painter.
Some may view it as “pain-staking.”
But I see the extensive planning as
a way to measure out my own
spanning of the universe,
inside and outside of me.
How could I possibly translate this
onto a canvas? I’ll tell you, I’ve found
it takes great Stillness, great Surrender,
great Grace.

I am not a fast painter.
I take the work as seriously as a
pious anchoress would her very own
private meditations & prayers.
I spend considerable hours building
up the full celestial image,
Layer, by layer, by layer.
Much like a mountain in the distance
that suddenly appears on our wanders,
Yet for millenia, has been right there.

I am not a fast painter.
It’s equally about the show,
as it is the tell. That is not to say,
its purpose is to rally & yell.
Which can be so noble, and lovely,
and full of heart! But! Let us not
forget the power of a piece of art which
can cause us to fall silent. To be still.
To help us to heal. To remember:
Each of us is a vessel that, with light,
Can be wholly filled.

I am not a fast painter.