“Write a … self-portrait poem, in which you explain why you are not a particular piece of art.” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-seven-11/)
It would be pedantic to say,
I’m not this painting. I’m not
paint, I’m not canvas, I’m literally
Not this painting. I am me.
It’s more true to say,
These shapes, these colors, this
kinetic energy rendered in stillness,
Is not me. It does not capture
My essence. I am me,
Not this painting.
This painting is this painting.
Tautology is pedantry. Is there
Any way to speak to the truth
Of this painting without devolving
Into shallow comparisons?
A vision from a mind so unlike my own,
yet a mind that feels so familiar.
A vision that lets me become
someone else, for a moment.
The personal brought into contact
With our universal humanity.
The man standing next to me scoffs:
It’s just a bunch of paint splattered around.
I could do that!
I think: Yes, but you didn’t.
John the Librarian 