Poetry week day four
Jan. 31st, 2014 01:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meridian_roseI seem to have lost all my readers, but I'll post for today and might wrap up with something a bit different.
Day four of poetry week, with the theme of creativity, the highs and lows, and the importance of audience.
The Artist
She sculpts, removing
The extraneous stone
Revealing the beauty within
It is her greatest passion
To find and display every
Curve and line
She meets him at a gallery
Next to a coffee shop
He's admiring Van Gough prints
She loves them too
They talk for a while, agree to
Meet next week
She tells him she's a sculptor
He says he wants to see her work
She's shy at first
Reluctant to display her imperfection
But she opens the door to her studio
To her soul
That's fantastic, he says
I love art
I paint watercolours
We should be friends
She agrees
They become close
He takes her to the coffee shop
They meet other artists
Novelists and actors and painters
Singers and poets
The café becomes a refuge, where she
Can be herself
It's nice, her best friend says
I don't understand art
But I like looking at it, she goes on,
This is a piece
I can imagine seeing
In a gallery
Art's nice,
Her mother says
But it's not a real job
I wish you'd put more effort
Into a proper career that would
Make me proud
Meanwhile, the piece takes form
It looks like him
Her confidante
The muse nods with approval
Hours go by as she works
Lost in bliss
You mean you're still working on that piece
Her best friend says
Bored of hearing about art
I don't understand
If you're not going to sell it
What's the point?
You have a gift, he says
Reassuring her when
No-one else understands
Perhaps he too
Hears the siren song
Of the muse
She can't brag of the things
Other people brag about
Proud of jobs they mostly complain about
Of relationships that leave them unfulfilled
Cars and jewellery and clothes
Such mundane things
Her pride and her beauty
Come from within
She tries to explain it
What it is to live with the muse
That the need to create is
In her blood
At the café,
Across the table from them,
The poet understands
Shy, scribbling away
They're not really friends but
They're kindred spirits
Yet he, who introduced her
To this world of artistry
Becomes jaded by it
They go to his house and drink tea
It's nice but
Not the same
They go to galleries
He only likes oil paintings now
Real art by real artists
She likes oils too
But sculpture is her first love and
Always has been
It used to be one of his, too
Love for her stonework
And his own passion for his watercolours
But he no longer paints
And no longer wants to hear
About her work
Come to my house he says
They sip coffee
Look at brochures of
Prints by real artists
I was never an artist, he says
It's a lie
Once an artist, always one
Yet he won't listen
Now cares nothing for creativity
Unless it's pre-approved
Made real by a monetary value
Bought and sold
She says, We rarely go to the café
Now, nor to my studio
He shrugs. I'm too busy
I don't have time for it
When he means he won't make time
Not for her
He won't make time
For his own art either
It's all pointless, after all
Trivial and amateur
Worthless
Like her creations
I'm still a sculptor, she says
Art is in my soul
My work might not be in a gallery
But it doesn't make it useless
Whatever, he says and, like that,
Their friendship is over
After that
She rarely goes to the café
It stirs up too many memories
The good ones now tainted
By the bitter end.
Yet she misses it
Still sometimes she sees him
Sipping coffee there
Talking with their mutual friends
Or wandering around a gallery
Where he is
Appreciating true artists
Or worse,
Encouraging some other amateur
Like he once did her
Before he lost interest
In the best part of her
The artist within
She goes home
There are times she loves
The solitude
It helps her work
But sometimes all she feels
Is the loneliness
She takes up a chisel
She breaks off the statue's nose
Begins to destroy the perfection
As if removing his image from her sight
Will remove her memories
And the pain
Galatea was a statue
Brought to life
By Venus
Moved by the devotion
Of the sculptor who so loved
His beautiful creation
She wants the opposite
She should become marble
Her skin should be cold
Her heart should be stone
Then she would not feel pain
Would never weep
But, whispers the muse
If you were stone
How then would you hear my voice?
Perhaps it would be better
If I did not, she says
Though it's inconceivable
Without the muse
Her life is empty
Yet with the muse
Her life is hard
No-one understands the intertwined
Joy and pain
Must I be vulnerable, she wonders
Must I be raw and exposed?
She thinks of all the artists
"touched by the gods" and
The ruin of their lives, and how only
Their art remains
At least there's that
Art should live on
That's the point
But must she only gain recognition
Not when she can appreciate it, but
After she's gone?
Sometimes it doesn't seem to matter
If she brings down the chisel
On the marble
Or her skin.
Or tosses the chisel aside.
She bleeds anyway.
Whenever someone thinks all fanfic is pointless and crap, or that people just ought to write original work (which many of us do) and it'll be magically be published and adored, or that published works are in themselves more 'real' and worthy (like, say, "Twilight"?!), I want to cry. (Or scream. Or blow something up) Creativity is in my soul, no matter what form it takes.
Day four of poetry week, with the theme of creativity, the highs and lows, and the importance of audience.
The Artist
She sculpts, removing
The extraneous stone
Revealing the beauty within
It is her greatest passion
To find and display every
Curve and line
She meets him at a gallery
Next to a coffee shop
He's admiring Van Gough prints
She loves them too
They talk for a while, agree to
Meet next week
She tells him she's a sculptor
He says he wants to see her work
She's shy at first
Reluctant to display her imperfection
But she opens the door to her studio
To her soul
That's fantastic, he says
I love art
I paint watercolours
We should be friends
She agrees
They become close
He takes her to the coffee shop
They meet other artists
Novelists and actors and painters
Singers and poets
The café becomes a refuge, where she
Can be herself
It's nice, her best friend says
I don't understand art
But I like looking at it, she goes on,
This is a piece
I can imagine seeing
In a gallery
Art's nice,
Her mother says
But it's not a real job
I wish you'd put more effort
Into a proper career that would
Make me proud
Meanwhile, the piece takes form
It looks like him
Her confidante
The muse nods with approval
Hours go by as she works
Lost in bliss
You mean you're still working on that piece
Her best friend says
Bored of hearing about art
I don't understand
If you're not going to sell it
What's the point?
You have a gift, he says
Reassuring her when
No-one else understands
Perhaps he too
Hears the siren song
Of the muse
She can't brag of the things
Other people brag about
Proud of jobs they mostly complain about
Of relationships that leave them unfulfilled
Cars and jewellery and clothes
Such mundane things
Her pride and her beauty
Come from within
She tries to explain it
What it is to live with the muse
That the need to create is
In her blood
At the café,
Across the table from them,
The poet understands
Shy, scribbling away
They're not really friends but
They're kindred spirits
Yet he, who introduced her
To this world of artistry
Becomes jaded by it
They go to his house and drink tea
It's nice but
Not the same
They go to galleries
He only likes oil paintings now
Real art by real artists
She likes oils too
But sculpture is her first love and
Always has been
It used to be one of his, too
Love for her stonework
And his own passion for his watercolours
But he no longer paints
And no longer wants to hear
About her work
Come to my house he says
They sip coffee
Look at brochures of
Prints by real artists
I was never an artist, he says
It's a lie
Once an artist, always one
Yet he won't listen
Now cares nothing for creativity
Unless it's pre-approved
Made real by a monetary value
Bought and sold
She says, We rarely go to the café
Now, nor to my studio
He shrugs. I'm too busy
I don't have time for it
When he means he won't make time
Not for her
He won't make time
For his own art either
It's all pointless, after all
Trivial and amateur
Worthless
Like her creations
I'm still a sculptor, she says
Art is in my soul
My work might not be in a gallery
But it doesn't make it useless
Whatever, he says and, like that,
Their friendship is over
After that
She rarely goes to the café
It stirs up too many memories
The good ones now tainted
By the bitter end.
Yet she misses it
Still sometimes she sees him
Sipping coffee there
Talking with their mutual friends
Or wandering around a gallery
Where he is
Appreciating true artists
Or worse,
Encouraging some other amateur
Like he once did her
Before he lost interest
In the best part of her
The artist within
She goes home
There are times she loves
The solitude
It helps her work
But sometimes all she feels
Is the loneliness
She takes up a chisel
She breaks off the statue's nose
Begins to destroy the perfection
As if removing his image from her sight
Will remove her memories
And the pain
Galatea was a statue
Brought to life
By Venus
Moved by the devotion
Of the sculptor who so loved
His beautiful creation
She wants the opposite
She should become marble
Her skin should be cold
Her heart should be stone
Then she would not feel pain
Would never weep
But, whispers the muse
If you were stone
How then would you hear my voice?
Perhaps it would be better
If I did not, she says
Though it's inconceivable
Without the muse
Her life is empty
Yet with the muse
Her life is hard
No-one understands the intertwined
Joy and pain
Must I be vulnerable, she wonders
Must I be raw and exposed?
She thinks of all the artists
"touched by the gods" and
The ruin of their lives, and how only
Their art remains
At least there's that
Art should live on
That's the point
But must she only gain recognition
Not when she can appreciate it, but
After she's gone?
Sometimes it doesn't seem to matter
If she brings down the chisel
On the marble
Or her skin.
Or tosses the chisel aside.
She bleeds anyway.
Whenever someone thinks all fanfic is pointless and crap, or that people just ought to write original work (which many of us do) and it'll be magically be published and adored, or that published works are in themselves more 'real' and worthy (like, say, "Twilight"?!), I want to cry. (Or scream. Or blow something up) Creativity is in my soul, no matter what form it takes.
no subject
Date: 2014-02-03 03:00 am (UTC)Loved the line:
Must I be vulnerable, she wonders
Must I be raw and exposed?
It resonated, powerfully.
no subject
Date: 2014-02-03 01:45 pm (UTC)Each poem takes a different art form (sculptor, actor, writer, plus an overall 'creative' rant in day one) because I think these feelings are common to all creative people from writers to musicians, the need to be seen/heard and appreciated. But of course I am primarily a writer, so that probably comes through strongly!
Thank you! It's hard to explain to people who don't create what it's like, the need to create and the joy of it - but the pain that it can also involve.
no subject
Date: 2014-02-05 07:02 am (UTC)It also drives me crazy how many people think fanfic is something odd and weird, while happily reading the latest Jane Austen spinoff or Sherlock Holmes story, or anything based on myth or Shakespeare. For legal issues, I understand why it's just not worth it to try to release fanfics off of current, still in copyright works, but how can they honestly not understand that the story is just as valid?
I'm trying to pub original purely because I'd like to be able to earn a part time income off my writing, but it's absolutely no different from writing fanfic. (Hell, I started with mythology fanfic, lol.) I have no intention of stopping, ever, and there will always be fanfics that I am just as proud of than my originals, if not more. And there will probably always be some of both that I'm not as happy with. >.>