A/N: My favourite poem, 'cause it's got all my signature genres-Love, angst, death. It's a poem about a world-renowned painter who falls in love with his muse, and his feelings when she asks him to paint a picture of her and her fiancee for their wedding...I know, right? It's my favourite for a reason. It's like a story in a poem form, so hope you enjoy. Part of the '9: Death' collection, co-written with Rajaee.
The Wedding Gift
You, a vision, before me stood
Your angelic presence bless'd the no-good
In my den, your lilt flowed
"Paint me a picture." Your eyes glowed
as you beamed, and your joy,
ran through me from toe to eye.
"Paint me and my love, dear friend,
for we're to wed at summer's end."
My heart was struck—it writhed and bled,
And thoughts of joy and love, they fled.
Was I to be a friend, just a mere friend?
While my passion consumed me at no end?
My passion, my love, my thirst for you
My soul's want and need, nothing new
The eye of the painter'd fallen on the muse
The blossom bloomed, and the struggler abused
the might of his power—his paint, his brush,
his inspiring source, which created lush
greens, calm blues and passionate reds
that coloured the Heavens and Nature's beds.
Fame had taken this struggler by storm
Who painted the world's dusk and dawn.
And they all wondered how this master
created beauty; in him ugliness festered.
The ugliness forgotten when this muse had entered
my world and become its sole centre.
Kindness, compassion rivalled by beauty,
and something so pure 'nmarred by something so dirty
was rare, as rare as a beautiful flower
that touched, soothed hearts like a lover.
But a flower so rare needn't something like me—
a bush in the desert which no one could see.
No, a goddess like her needed another god,
and her love was that handsome lord.
But comparing us, him and me,
bespoke of terrible cruelty.
Tall, with shoulders broad and strong,
his smile dazzled; his gait was long.
His eyes twinkled with an unknown glee
their green the sparkle in the blue of the sea
My hand was unsteady, my heart shook
As they sat together; he gave her a look
full of love; she smiled and returned it,
with like, and tore my heart to bits
I loved her greater, but I was no god.
As I looked at them, plunged in a rod
through my gut, and blood into pools dripped—
I blinked once, and the image slipped.
Half my mind was immersed in work,
the other in agony, but hatred didn't lurk.
As my love and her love, through the flick of a brush,
Came to life on canvas, but my mind didn't shush—
'I should be there!' But who'd paint me?
The goddess and I, uglier than greed?
Eyes like black beetles embedded in my face,
grimy, black hair like tattered lace.
A stoop 'tween shoulder; pallor like sand;
a face 'rinkled like a granny's hand.
The stature of a stump; a reedy voice,
a thin, unpleasant, whining noise.
A limping gait; startling cowardice;
branded with the inability of being nice.
A terror only like through the teeth
for the flare of his brush, not what lay beneath.
Two weeks you sat before me.
Mine? Heh, you could never be.
Only on canvas could you be mine—
Alas! Even then, your love was wine
and he the drinker, and he the man,
the hero on my canvas, the master of his clan.
And I, nowhere close, nowhere seen
An insect in the dirt, a once had-been.
The two o' you together, the image was burned,
branded in my mind. The two of you I turned
away, saying, "It'll be delivered
as your wedding gift." And my blessings I offered,
As you went away, I picked up a knife,
and stabbed the canvas—stabbed, stabbed! its life.
This worthless! useless! miserable being!
Unfit for touch! Unfit for seeing!
My fingers itched; their want to create
pulled me to a canvas, to draw, to paint.
The branded image still scorched my mind.
Dipped in paint, my brush defined
him and you, the love between two,
a love so pure, the kind called true.
While I, I cried tears of passion—
Impure love, its grotesk face blackened.
Tears dropped, rolled down my cheeks.
Tears fell on the artful technique.
Tears of water became those of blood—
stain'd your picture red with their flood.
Tears of blood splattered on your dress;
the canvas was torn; another soon possessed
your picture, his picture, burned in my brain
then it was torn once your dress grew stain'd.
I drew, I drew; I painted away
I poured my heart and soul each day.
Once the red defiled, it was torn and thrown;
another one came, and another one torn.
Day after day, throughout the night
I worked to no avail, no delight
when finally, unstained, unmarred, clean
you came before me on canvas, serene
as you've always been, and my tears flow'd,
stained my cheeks red. And old
memories flew before my blind eyes
and this, I knew, to be my last prize.
The anger and sorrow, the pain, the fear
seeped out in a river I could hear.
Its noxious bubbles extinguished the fire,
extinguished the need to make, its desire.
Now as lie in bed, my gift sent,
three days ago. But I don't repent
not coming to the wedding; no, my dear
every detail of your day before me appears—
You're dressed in flowing white.
Nervous excitement and delight
clear in those eyes, those beautiful sapphires,
sapphires I'm sure he loves and admires.
Those sapphires meet emeralds, and they are glad.
Everything forgotten—the wicked and bad
are not welcome here, in this picture of joy
this picture where girl meets boy.
No, but you are woman and man
Then you are wed, and his clan
welcomes you with open arms
Your friends and family around you swarms.
And as you eat, a young boy enters
A boy I sent; to your question he answers,
"I am a lad; the painter sent me
bearing the gift for the man and lady."
Your nature shows your concern
as you question—my presence you yearn.
"He can't come, but there's one request—
Open the gift in front of your guests."
You open, and show to all who can see
"What beauty—you two!" say all who can't see me,
for my blood makes the red of your roses
I am the red of those heavenly bunches
My feelings to you I've always hidden
But not anymore! For the words are written
behind this picture. Covered by the frame
are feelings of love, of sorrow, of shame.
Someone might find them, I'm hoping
Someone else understanding my feelings
is another hope, but maybe an unreal
thought might help than another ordeal.
A long time had passed, without lover but one friend
and now, thirty-eight years must end.
I turned to a side, pick up the knife,
and wonder, 'What could death be like?'
A/N: I know, long, right? And a bit over the top-but hey, let me know if I'm beating myself up too much. My sister says I do. But it's the best way to describe each and everything that my painter felt. Read, review and check out my other works! See ya!