They said: “One picture is worth one thousand words”. Art lovers stand analytically in front of a drawing, a painting or a picture, they’re contemplative, pensive and meditative. Their facial expressions and distortions melancholically reflect the agony of a woman in labor. Others brood hurriedly and unreceptively.

Some see images smiling at and talking to them, while others, who suffer from mental dyspepsia and visual dyslexia, only see chicken scratches. Some savor the beauty and the ingenuity, while others shake their heads in bafflement, as if they were borrowing Rudyard Kipling’s verses:

“I could not look on death, which being known,
Men led me to him, blindfold and alone”

As in the spoken and written word, drawings, although accomplished through visualization, also display the utterance of a soul riding the wings of the spirit, the exploration of the mind and its follies, the outpouring of the imagination and its creativity, the eroticism of the body and its nuances, and the agility of the hand and its craftiness.

Drawings represent questions, which have no answers; dimensions, which have no measures; horizons, which have no limits; and portrayals, which have no promises. What you see is not necessarily what you get.

I felt that the creativity and vision in my poems could be enhanced by some variety of illustrations serving as backgrounds or accompaniment. So I decided to forcibly subject my pencil, “that mighty instrument of little men” (Byron), to my capricious mind. Artistically, I might have produced bizarre apples and oranges, but they have served my purpose in drawing them to tickle the five senses, and to add depth to the lyrics.

I am an imposter and foreigner to this fine art. The truth, I have no clear idea of its schools, norms, standards or rules, except for the bestowed Godly privilege of having sight, fingers and imagination.
So, armed with the maxim:

It is better that you have dared to love and failed than to have never known love.