Saturday, March 17, 2012

Eloquence, Divided

Eloquence, Divided

for Zeena

The Author turned and spurned a page

tickled by that fickle Mage

known to some as muse or thought,

by which artist's dreams are wrought.

And here it seems the author froze

bereft of any worthy prose,

each note salt upon the tongue

and so the choice, to utter none.

Watch now as the flowers die

watch the clouds consume the sky,

every beast withered there

in the winter of the Author's fear.

Waiting for the faintest spark,

a dim delight to break the dark,

but not sublime enough for She;

all art loses its magesty-

So sing!

A brittle song is praising still

if joy has stirred its ailing will-

Give in, give in!

Forget to correct,

surrender instead to the whim of the imperfect!

The Author sighs, no sign of relief,

“Leave me to the peril of my wordless grief.”

And with that muttered, painful plea,

the Mage is surrendered to humanity.

Within Her, beauty never sleeps,

it hides and teases, often weeps.

The moon knows best your Author's fight

let it rest,

that You, may write.

     I believe that at the heart of many a fulfilling and successful friendship, is admiration.

     I met Zeena when she was “Going on Eighteen” with a personality as fiery as the red, satin BCBG skirt she was wearing. I challenged her in an online forum and a friendship was struck. Our friendship has been tumultuous, with tantrums, silent spells, gorgeous music and lush dances and lots of long nights in brilliant conversation. Sound a bit daunting rather than nourishing, well, there has never been anything boring about our friendship and I treasure that. But back to admiration, she is an amazing person, that's all very well and easy to say, especially if you've met her, what I admire most is her persistence toward a very imminent grandness. Now, she would smack me while blushing if she were reading this in my presence but its true, the woman is just that talented in so many diverse ways, one of which has her quite frustrated as of late.

     This poem is about the struggle that many artists encounter along their path, an Artistic Identity Crisis if you will, AIC. The AIC is characterized by feeling the need to be one's art, to be a photographer, a writer, a dancer rather than someone who takes photographs, writes novels or does ballet. What's the difference rather than a play on words? Its an extremely important event for an artist to recognize, as the AIC is resolved, that they are of value, not because they are an artist or someone who makes art, but because they have something to contribute simply by existing. Sounding too existential, I believe there are lots of other identity crisis to explain it by, like the MIC, the Mothering Identity Crisis during which women who either have no children, or their children leave home, experience a sense of worthlessness because their purpose went off to college and they've forgotten they have hobbies and friends and kids who still need them but in a different way. When my Mom was rushed into surgery eleven years ago she had to sign a waiver that it was okay by her that she receive a full hysterectomy, reason being, removing a woman's ability to have children can also initiate the MIC. I had an FIC, Female Identity Crisis, when I left my job and home to get married and move in with my husband, so we're married, now what? That was a confusing time.

     Anyway, the poem isn't about resolution, its to soothe, encourage and remind-each of us will feel lost at times, even in the midst of our greatest accomplishments and so, sing, give in, go mad, you are loved and admired regardless.  

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