Misnomers of Fame
by Odin Roark

How ill conceived,
this idea of personal fame,
the delusion that a person
represents the sole reason
for a work’s respect and awe.

For is it not the painting’s color, brush strokes, shadowing,
the music’s arousal of primitive innateness,
the ballet’s executed graphic mobility,
the sculpture’s textural impact and shimmer,
the historic readiness words afford a poem or verse,
that lifts our mundane habits into epiphanous realms?

Yet, credit is always given to a mortal.

Ask, and most artists would concede,
what guides their hands,
feet,
voice,
mind,
is an enigmatic wonder,
perhaps born unto them,
but from what source,
remains beyond any DNA genealogy.

Yes…

Artists may remain unknown,
their work appreciated by few,
their sense of self worth always on precipitous balance,
But…

Deep down…

The consummate creator knows,
he or she is but a relay,
a vessel of delivery,
expressing that which the insolated dare not risk,
the free spirit dare not resist.

And thus…

How rewarding
the imagination’s sense of carefree identity,
rejoicing most often in fewer responses than mainstream,
but feeling worth in the comments,
suggesting the patron has found something that empowers,
affords a risk-free peek into new perception,
perhaps an epiphany to grow upon.

What true artist would need more?

Only the evolving ones not yet ready to accept their calling.

For those,
our patience is golden.