I present to you my new collection of poems which will be reflective of my present states of mind and compel me to translate my deepest desires and waves of thoughts, brimming with emotions.
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Pictorial representations have always given me vigour to write . This untitled work above, by Rose Mary Boehm, hence, literally gave my creative powers 'wings' to write the following poem.
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WHEN I BECAME BIRDMAN
Freedom is what dreams provoke in me to wear this skin without resorting to the masque of make-believe.
Freedom is the spindle from which spools a parallel wish; one where even a begrudging 'yes' allots me room to breathe and make legible my words. Better now to court the attention from critics who watch me part curtains and launch into an unusual, unbroken soliloquy than sycophants who picture me solely as a ventriloquist.
This is my life as the 'Birdman' dressed in suffocating cotton mass but never as mobile or serene when personifying all I have to as now.
The metaphor for every stage is to be heavy with skill and fecund nerves. But when the body moves independent of a thousand glares and the dome of the spotlight, Eureka! that's when the artist separates and becomes a being.
The art of becoming a bird is subtle. You have to align the humility of being nature's paragon with beseeching all the innocent sparks sold to the world.
The world's a stage. One's own flight there has to begin with nimble steps and a face towards the sun and the moon, determined this is the day when the 'act' becomes deceased and true form takes birth.
