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Book 5 Page 38


If I were an artist



I am a poet, but if I were a painter!


If I were a painter instead of a poet

I would have paint splattered freely upon my canvas.

For when I use words they come pouring out of me in abundance.


My pallet would be full with colours.

Colours bright, colours dull, some old, some dry, some freshly squeezed,

for when I write words they come from many places.


And Id’ be such a messy painter, there’d be paint all over my face and cloths,

for I’d forget myself, just like I do when I am engrossed in the images of words.

If I were an artist there’d be no time for cleanliness.


There’d be no time to think to long on any one colour,

any one perspective, any one shape.

For my canvas (like me,) would be on fire,

on fire with passion and feeling.

My only concern would be to ‘let it out,’ to! … how do the good painters say!?

“to express.”


For if I was a painter and not a poet,

I’d gorge myself on colours and perspective.

Colours of the setting sun and the colours of the magnificent and great earth.

Gorge myself on the perspectives of the human body and face, in pain and in happiness.



I am not a painter, I am a poet,

And so my fires of passion are lit and fuelled by the images of ‘words.’


And so upon my words, - my plentiful and precious words,

Words that are like, logs in a fire,

I burn my soul.


© Written by Dominic John Gill  19/7/99