On transcendence

My brother, a part-time professional photographer, describes himself as a failed painter. In the same vein, I describe myself as a frustrated poet, turning to paint when my pen is paralyzed.

Art is eloquent and articulate. That is, if you give it the space to be. For me, painting is an avenue of expression that gives unique weight to the emotional undercurrents of a subject, while simultaneously leaving space for the ambiguity of that emotion.

When I feel broken, splintered, scattered, anxious – to paint brings order to the emotional chaos, my chaos. It pieces the shattered fragments of a messy life into a mosaic of meaning. To paint is the closest I have come to transcendence.

Meanwhile, frustrated or not, I persevere in the practice of poetry, allowing my stumbling and stuttering to deepen my respect for all that is transcendent.

“Transcendence, in broken verse”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Air harsh,

Alveoli parched -

Never enough.

Searing life

We never clearly see

Until we feel fear

Oh, God - until we

Realize how much we really hurt

And how much we need to.

Oh, Life -

Neurons

Charge

Electric

Through our bodies.

Oh, Soul -

Race our electricity and

Transcend

Atmospheric

Penetrant

Explosive

Leaving shaken, transient shells behind.

Yet they pull a piece

Of this present

Into the never endings of -

Timelessness

Of a breathe set free

Of it’s bony cage

Of carbon limitations

Enraged

Constrained:

Our human

Reality.

It breaks our hearts to tell

A broken body

It is called to exist

Still

On this ground

In this dust

In this maddening-frustrating-worldly

Lust

For what we cannot fulfill -

But with emptiness.

And yet,

We continue.

We remain tethered, yet apart;

Earth anchored, yet serene;

Dust covered entities -

We persist.

Tears fleeting,

Tears streaming,

Making rivers,

Making oceans,

Making crashing waves,

Of pain -

And pain -

And, oh-God-where-are-you

Pain.

Panic bred,

Pandemic spread,

We ask for more “transcendence,” for:

More soul,

More spirit,

More of the celestial,

More of whatever we hope is The Divine.

Oh God, what is eternal?

We ask for more of

God.

And we are given

Piercing glimpses of Divinity

Amidst

Mirror-scattered humanity.

The perpetual pull goes on

Towards a granite promise

That even granite cannot hold

Only diamond?

And we’re not there yet:

More fire, more fight.

More refinement, more redemption,

We've been given our answer after all

We suppose.

We:

Breathe in,

Breathe out:

Harsh air our lungs so humbly need.

God - thank God - it cannot be anything

But

Harsh and human breathe

Until we learn to breathe

With You.