Manners Of Death: Artist Of Art

Poem Of Passion (2024)

20th January, 2024

“We have with us, today – Mr. Dennis Lewis – a linguistic with expertise in English, Latin, Italian and French. Graduated from the University of Oxford with a masters degree in all the said languages.” A slight pause. “Sir, were honored to invite you to our show. Todays episode marks the significance of grief in an artists life.

As an expert, firstly, we'd like to hear your definition of grief alone. How much headspace does grief itself consume? And why it is important to get in touch with it occasionally?”

A brief chuckle is then heard, “Grief, if felt completely and immensely, is no less than a fever. It rushes slowly – like warmth; which burn, and not caress – spreads around in the entire body terminated from the head or, exceptionally from the heart.

This exception is what births an artist. And their new-found surrealistic sorrow is what births the art.” Another chuckle. “Grief is the mother of all art.”
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The car was swirling through the muddles around the farm when the 10th episode of An artists life started. Now it was in the concrete roads of the New York city – the only man in the car, handling the wheel, intently listening to the podcast. The front seat of the car which was usually assigned to his wife, now had a spiraled bundle of paper laying casually. The first page read, The star of my soul, it was a poetry anthology about his love for his wife. He smiled to it before halting the engine.

The four-storey building with glassed walls was the headquarter for Tangerine Publication. He closed the door with one hand, holding the anthology in another. His excitement was palpable as he rushed through the stairs, elevators and finally through the doors of the publishers office.

It was a lady, dressed in a comfy pair of pants and a casual shirt, her hair was messed and the under-eye bags were proving, her nights being spent without an ounce of sleep. She was hysteric in her motions, projecting utter madness for her work. “Please have a seat, sir!” Despite her tired appearance, she sounded bizarrely excited.

“Lina Escher had referred my work to your publication. We had an appointment about my anthology.”

“Absolutely! We did! May I take a look at the poetry first? And may you speak a few words about the idea of,” She glanced at the cover page, “The star of my soul?” She chuckled, her eyes squinting like a child. “I like the selection of the name.”

Surely, she was handed the bundle of printed paper, which she received with the same child-like excitement. “It came to me that most I write about is my wife,” he chuckled, “So, while selecting the poems for this anthology, I decided to dedicate it to her. Obviously, she is the star of my soul – the one shining within me.” She nodded, understanding his reference quite well. The smile didnt leave her lips throughout the half hour that she flipped through the pages, reading each word with great delicacy.

He sat there in anticipation, with hands sweaty, heart jumping and mind optimistic – fueled by the publishers smile.

Much like fooled, though – He realized when she kept the pages down. “I like your work. Its magnificent, no exaggeration at all. However, it didnt quite strike through me, didnt make my gut wrench, or make me hold my breath until I really feel the depth of your love for your wife. These pieces are great, no doubt; but not the masterpieces they could be. You get me. Right?”

“I, uh, I do.” He feigned a smile, failing in his attempt.

“I dont mean to criticize you.” She spoke softly, knowingly. “But I want you to bring out your true potential.” Handing him the paper back, she asked, “I'll see you again, yeah?”

“Yes. Yes, you will.”

He threw the anthology in the backseat, utterly hopeless, filled with regret, sorrow and redness in his head; he felt crushed – thrown down the skies like hailstones, striking the ground in an ungraceful, unpleasing manner. This fall was ugly to him, unsettling. To his breathing, it was horror; to his heart, it was an attack and to his soul, it was defeat.

What was much worse was, this ugly fall, this horror, this attack and the complete helplessness of defeat was a first for him. Ever since young, he was praised for all hed do. Each word written by him was celebrated by his father and his mother and his friends. But these mere words, not the masterpieces they could be, they were horrifying.

It was a new-found manner of vulnerability; he didnt like it. He didnt want to feel it any deeper, any further, any more.

The car swirled through the same streets of the New York city, the flashing streetlights irritated his eyes, moon just couldnt shine bright enough either, nor did the wind soothe his head this time. None of his usual muses had their breath-taking effect on him this day.

Instead of going home, his car took him to the bar; he needed some alcohol in his broken system. He remembered writing one too many pieces about being deeply broken, man had he only felt it this day!

Volunteeringly, he moved his hand, looked at his shaking self. The glass of alcohol forming distorted ripples within; it enchanted him. He recalled what he heard on his way to the publication – grief. Things were only beautiful when distorted. Now he was, too.

After a few – which were too many – glasses, he decided to move on his feet, heading home. His car and the printed poetry left in the parking lot.
-

“Where have you been? I was worried to death, Honey!” The star of his soul spoke – his wife. He saw her face, as if for the first time. She was his favorite muse and she had never made him feel broken; never gave him grief. She said she only intended to give him a child – which was far from sorrow; but he wanted only that. He kissed her lips, bit them – expecting her to bite them back. She didnt.

He pushed her, growing frustrated. “I failed!” He shouted. “I'm no good! I cannot feel enough to write anything worth it.” He cursed himself and the publisher too. He was high on temper and off his face; his brain a wreck and his heart a mess. A knife, he saw on the kitchen counter and rushed to it. His wife rushing behind, afeared.

“Can you please calm down? Youre scaring me.”

“I am calm.” He said and strangely, he was too.

He examined the knife, picked a lemon and sliced it half, squeezing it in a glass of water. His wife relaxing at the gesture. “You know, what she said? He drank it. That my pieces arent the masterpieces they could be, that I have potential and she wants to see it.” He paused, embracing her tightly. “I want your help with that, love.”

He looked her in the eyes, devouring all the life she had; the browns of them were similar to the intoxication in his body – he wanted to wash them out. So, he stabbed her. “Be the mother of my art, please.” He spoke in her dead ear.

It was blood all over the floor, all over her body and all over his soul; a few splashes on the counter – his vision filled with the crimson shine of her wet love.

The lemon worked through his system – a little too late though, his conscious running back and so were his tears. His body ached and burned; he shivered out of it. He was out of breaths again. The knife still in his hand, her body still on the floor. He burst a scream before falling to the ground.

“My poetry is painted red!” He cried out and fainted. He finally had the sorrow of a lifetime and poetry for even more.
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