Starving Artist?
By: Mishaila Posted on: August 31, 2008
The gentle forest breeze touches my face
with fragrant scents of moss and moistened earth.
I breathe them in and drown in their embrace.
A songbird serenades me, bright with mirth.
Enraptured by the caring forest song,
I watch the leaves sway, watch the chipmunks play.
My flute in hand, I softly play along,
my theme as soothing as the charming day.
A flower maiden floats in from my left.
Her graceful dance soon puts me in a daze.
My nimble fingers match her feet, so deft,
until her final step, my final phrase.
I place my flute beside me on the ground,
and, with a dreamy smile, open my eyes,
but all I see is darkness, all around.
A gasp escapes my lips in my surprise.
My muse kept me from seeing I was blind:
I thought I'd seen the Ithmian forest light.
I grasp my upper arm and there I find
a fading mindseye; it returns my sight.
Still drowsy from the musical foray,
I glance around across the autumn scene.
A pile of kawhe cups, to my dismay,
defiles the tranquil forest, so serene.
But when I blink the trees have gone away,
a carpet underfoot shows autumn print.
Outside the window clouds are winter grey,
and Clock Tower bells provide the final hint.
The Dancing Boar is where I locked myself
inside a room to work on my new piece.
It drew me in, and I forgot myself.
A sudden feebleness disturbs my peace.
My stomach rumbles loudly, calls for food,
my clothes are tattered, filled with gaping holes,
and stick to me, and scratch, and spoil my mood.
I simply sigh and stand to take a stroll.
Covered in dust and grime, I make my way
across the snow clad streets to Sulis' baths.
It is quite cold this icy winter day,
I shiver in the shreds in which I'm clad.
The bath is beneficent, hot and clean,
and as I soak I open up my mind
to listen to my channels; I'm quite keen
to hear the others' voices, they are kind.
"Who will perform?" the Maestro asks us all.
"The New Year's Concert's coming very soon."
"I will, I will, a brand new piece!" I call.
"But I need clothes... and food... is it yet noon?"
I stand, dripping with water, scan the room.
Come midnight I will need to be prepared.
"Come out to play." I whisper. Very soon
a baby rat's responding to my dare.
I point my finger, uttering a curse.
The whimp'ring baby rat begins to bleed
and quickly dies; this was its final verse.
It's sad, but it must die for me to feed.
Thank Maya for the tailors in our House.
Before I even find my second rat
a friend arrives with skirt and silken blouse,
and socks, some shoes, a cloak, even a hat!
"Come to the Boar," a voice speaks in my mind.
"I have a bowl of manna ready here."
I quickly dress, and, friend in tow, I find
the gracious priestess waiting, she's a dear.
Speaking my thanks I sit and drink my fill.
So nourished I begin to fall asleep.
I couldn't stay awake with all my will,
but as I drift away my thoughts are deep.
There are no starving artists in Ty Beirdd.
We help each other as a family should.
This time 't was me who never had to fear.
I'd do the same for each one if I could.
If we go hungry it will be by choice,
for poetry or music, art sublime,
for things we feel we need to give a voice.
We'd only starve without our dance and rhyme.