What I Did for Art: Poetry and Pain

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings,
but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them,
they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: 
“Sing for us soon again;”
that is as much as to say, “May new sufferings torment your soul.”
~ Soren Kierkegaard

 

E

ach person we meet bears a secret pain.  Just because they don’t walk with a limp, or bear an ugly scar, or have blood dripping from some horrific gash, does not mean that all is well in Wonderland.

We blessed breed of writers, we get to live our pain twice: once, while it’s happening, and the second time, when we write it down.  Hopefully in the retelling, the sting of it is mellowed, and understanding blossoms in place of bitterness and agony.

This poem was written back in May when I was feeling particularly harassed by artist responsibilities.  And as I’m feeling that way again, only with even more pressure and angst this go ‘round, I dusted it off and present it to you for your reading and empathetic pleasure.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

What I Did for Art
What does it mean

When you dream

That you have no pants

And the party is starting?

Unprepared for the future

Of tonight’s event

And what it heralds

For growth, prosperity –

Responsibility.

I don’t want to grow up

I want to remain blissful,

Ignorant

Of marketing, SEO, and twitter feeds.

The artist craves silence,

Solitude

And the space to create and just be.

She will starve if she doesn’t let others

Know of the beauty inside her;

But she will starve is she doesn’t tend

The fire alone when she needs to.

I walk along the edge of a dam  –

Defying the falls of demand and domain,

Gazing into the quiet pools of creative contemplation

That keep the river fed.

How to walk between them

without slipping on pride and place

And drowning in exhaustion?

Although I’ve heard the artist

Is more valuable

Once she’s gone.

©May 2012 Mikaela D’Eigh