The concentration that is

When I focus to submit

Is utter freedom.

To create from the two

Is to be split into a thousand different opinions

Judgement rises from self

First

And turns like Ouroboros

To consume my own art

Until there is nothing left

But a hungry mouth

That is never fed

For art feeds my soul

Yet the ego falls

To the sound of all the words

That have ever been spoken through history

About creators

I step back from a piece of work

And it begins in the mind with “I made that“

It begins with the claim

The “I”

At least for me

And it has always been

A resounding victory by self defeat

But the cricket in the grass

At 3am has nothing to do with “I”

And the sparrow that weaves its hopping way

Between fifty odd tables a day

In an outdoor cafe

Or catches the whirring insect in the last rays of sunset

Evading the crows

Evading the toes in boots that would kick it

Fulfills the promise of my classroom nuns long ago

That not even the smallest bird in the field

Will go hungry

Go lightly child go lightly

Knowing it has never been about being talented

But rather the magic always lies

In the connection

Art has nothing to do with talent, it’s the enjoyment of connection to a source that everyone knows, many deny, but everyone knows, at their deepest level – simply is.

I read somewhere that for most of history “anonymous” was female. But perhaps anonymous were also the people who knew that their talent didn’t create the work, their connection did and enjoyed the connection so much that they simply let it be whatever it wanted to be.