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

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.

Sunday

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.

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