Day 62. The Left Bank of Worlds
Day 62 of the Poetry for Peace Poemathon. Sunday June 10th. I am joined again by the talented star of the future Alia Mirdita, age 7, whose poem is also below. Hope you like them!
The Left Bank of Worlds
© 2018 Steve Cook
Sometimes we wonder what we do it for,
Churning out verse almost nobody likes,
Essays that nobody reads,
Novels that gather dust on Amazon,
Sharing ideas no-one agrees with,
Pointing at futures no-one yet sees.
I wonder what drives people like me
Or the bazillion other artists
Who have swarmed to this planetary Bohemia,
This Left Bank of worlds,
To keep on cranking it out year after year,
Like the musician nobody hears,
Or the oracle no-one believes,
The painter who gets famous after he's dead,
Or cuts off his own ear
And is mainly remembered for being
Not right in the head.
The poet pours out his heart
To an audience of three,
Knowing he'll never be remembered
Beyond the day after tomorrow - or sooner
If the fickle winds of fashion shift
In some other doomed wordsmith's direction.
You'd think all this is sad wouldn't you?
The beautiful sadness of bleak desolation.
But not a bit of it, for when all said and done
There's some spark in the act of creation
That brings joy that resides next door to heaven.
The accolades and validation come second,
For no pat on the head ever brought anyone
To God - Who was, when you think about it,
The Original and ultimate artist
With the whole the universe as His canvas.
And each artist feels a part of Him inside of us
Every time with pick up a brush or a pen
Or tap the day's first computer key
And encode the Zen of living
In paint, in words or the rhythym
Of a verse or symphony.
I'm sure, by the way - and I take wee consolation - That Will Shakespeare in his day
Had his woes; the play that got less than
Rave reviews from blokes in some
Tavern after the show sagely picking holes
In Othello or complaining that
No-one in real life talks in verse,
Or that the end of Macbeth was a let-down
And they could have done it better,
Given the poor Scottish bugger a happy ending,
'Cos why make everything so ruddy depressing?
Who remembers the travelling players who took
Hamlet on the road and were showered
With ripe tomatoes by oiks
Who preferred Kit Marlowe?
Even they have forgotten - but how can anyone
Achieve recognition or belief
If they do not recognize or believe in themselves?
We've all been there, we all have our
Stories - and some of them are even true.
More or less - but win or lose,
The true glory is in the creation
And besides, there's no such thing
As an overnight sensation.
Every "overnight" success sweated blood
For more years - or even more lives -
Than he or she cares to believe,
Much less remember.
© 2018 Alia Mirdita
This was the BEST day ever!
I'm going to think about this day forever!
So here is what happened:
I went to the zoo
And the cow said "moo".
Then I went to America
And there was a lot of heat there
And for dinner
I ate meat.