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.