Where do you live? Where a poet is a painter

I love this velvet poetry from ee cummings. It’s like me. Like I finally found the words to describe my own soul, except maybe with a twist

“Why do you paint?
For exactly the same reason I breathe.
That’s not an answer.
There isn’t any answer.
How long hasn’t there been any answer?
As long as I can remember.
And how long have you written?
As long as I can remember.
I mean poetry.
So do I.

Tell me, doesn’t your painting interfere with your writing?
Quite the contrary: they love each other dearly.
They’re very different.
Very: one is painting and one is writing.
But your poems are rather hard to understand, whereas your paintings are so easy.
Easy?
Of course — you paint flowers and girls and sunsets; things that everybody understands.
I never met him.
Who?
Everybody.
Did you ever hear of nonrepresentational painting?
I am.
Pardon me?
I am a painter, and painting is nonrepresentational.
Not all painting.
No: housepainting is representational.
And what does a housepainter represent?
Ten dollars an hour.
In other words, you don’t want to be serious —
It takes two to be serious.
Well, let me see… oh, yes, one more question: where will you live after this war is over?
In China; as usual.
China?
Of course.
Whereabouts in China?
Where a painter is a poet.” ee cummings

If I could offer the e.e perhaps one amendment, it would be “where a poet is a painter.” Yes, that’s better.

I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. It's so deeply a part of me, that I couldn't tell you where my soul ends, and the writing begins. But I only started painting a few years ago.

A very good friend of mine had suddenly died and poetry could no longer help my broken heart to heal. I had been wanting to start painting for a while but was so deathly afraid I wouldn't immediately be great at it, that I put it off for a too time, that I wouldn’t be any good at it.

ButI didn't want to wait anymore. I wanted to do the things that my soul needed me to.

And so I started painting. I painted flowers and I healed. Painting flowers brought me back to life but poetry keeps me among the living and they both provide the doorway to visit the dead and dark.

A poem extracted from a short story I wrote to help deal with the passing of my dear friend

Flowers represent transformation for me, the very essence of life. They are so utterly beautiful and hopelessly vulnerable, like human hearts. And I suppose I am trying to understand my own.

The acrylic representation of the above poem

So, what are you?

A painter, a poet, or both?

However you identify, I hope you find the thing that speaks to your soul, as I have.