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Poems about creativity and art

Humans love art. Creativity is a way to express emotions and thoughts. The following poems deal with themes such as the pain of trying to be original, the healing power of art, the ownership of art, and the pros and cons of being consumed by one’s own imagination.




the dark, stormy night.

So boring.

We’ve seen this:

werewolves, vampires...

and the artist.

Suffering from

heavy emotions,

laying on the floor,

listening to the storm howling.

Crying, dying inside, alone.

I am bored.

I’m in a dying need

of something new,

something exciting,

something no one

has ever done before.


in the dark,

not in the spotlight,

the artist uses their flashlight

to open their flask.

I erase the last line.

An alcoholic artist?

What a stereotype!

I open my bottle, take a gulp.

Maybe a drink helps me think,

I miss the link,

not in sync with my brain,

they need more, more,

drain out your juices,

reinvent the wheel,

they’ll want more.

You don’t own art

I held up my brush

and brushed away,

at the painted sea was a ship

that sailed away. At bay,

I’d painted away my tainted

emotions, wishing

the artwork to

be there, to hold me,

to make me survive

the depths

of my sea.

It thought otherwise.

Flopping down

to the ground

my painting grew feet.

Daring to dart,

it left with a clefted

frame, sticking out

its tongue, just for me,

for the memory

of its birth mom,

who’d carried it around

in her womb, ached, shrieked,

left weak. I had hoped

it would be here,

to take care of me.

It thought otherwise.

Packing its stuff, not much:

ambition, hunger, cravings

of something other than me,

other universe, perhaps

a degree in a university. It packed

its frame and a spare one,

a fancier one just in case of

fancier frame occasions.

With all this in a suitcase

it leaped through the window.

A plane ticket to the world

hidden behind the pocket

of my child’s canvas.

“Watch out for the pickpockets!”

I had told it, and it had listened.

Well, once. Hooray.

The next time I heard

of my child was

one morning.

Its face on the paper, smiling,

wedded to a girl of its dreams:

a Marionette. Together,

they’d blended and mixed,

transfixed was its heart,

its canvas, my canvas, my skin,

through and through and from within,

its soul now hers, not mine.

I broke through my pain,

baked another child.

When it was born, soft tunes,

merry tones, its sinews and bones,

all mine. “I’ll treat you better,”

I promised, and I did.

I was its owner.

It thought otherwise.

The words

They are there,

they are raw,

they hurt.

And I clung to them.

I breathe, and drink

and live

those words.

And still they cut.

So deep it hurts,

so deep it bleeds.

It’s cleansing.

It is a purge,

throwing up words

on paper.

I feel light, intoxicated

and cleaned, all at once.

You never know

The things you come up with.

Walking outside, planting seeds

in the ground at your

grandfather’s farm. They float,

they flee. They see you

and stick to you. You forget them.

You come up with better ideas.

You come up with worse.

They take you,

from this sofa to another.

From this table to a universe,

very far from here. Where

flowers grow in trees and

the sky is a lake and the lake

is the sky.

And you float. Through it all.

In between time,

and space, and physics,

and metaphors.

And you’re there

and you’re here. At least sometimes.

Most times,

you’re stuck in the middle.

And then, when things

get hard, you want

to quit. Because it’s tiring,

being here and being there and

being somewhere in between.

But the thing is,

you never know. Never

know what you figure

out about flying

seals with bumblebee riders

when you sit

in maths class and hope

to escape.

But then again,

you never know.

Once you’re there,

in Neverland, in Narnia,

you might realise something

just as valuable

about here.


Teksti: Annukka Mäkeläinen

Kuvat: Annukka Mäkeläinen


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