Speck of Dust

By: Victoria Smith

 

I’m floating between what came
before me and what comes after me.
I’m but a speck of dust
whipped up by the wind,
occupying spaces between—
if there are still any.
I look for greatness in myself,
and find only ambition for it.
I am nothing,
yet I am everything.
When they finally hear my songs,
I will have long gone
and sought the comfort of the earth—
returned to it,
as dust is to dust.
My labors will shine their glory
on those who least deserve it,
and I shudder at my dreams’ mockery
by those whom I rebuked in this life.
Thus I pray to my Muse,
O, Source of All Creation, grant
this humble mortal this one wish:
To create that masterpiece
of which you are inspiration.
Grant in my lifetime what few
are given: Blessed gift of witness
to love’s labors won.
Only silence replies—echoing and
slithering around me, driving me
deeper into the shadows
that smother the exiled lover.
And when my Muse speaks at last,
it is through a dream
veiling my vision of her.
She says,
If you seek only the glory
of mortals, then you shall live
their hell. But if you can find heaven in
every word you write, then you need not
the glory you seek; it has
already been given you.
The few words come at last—
tentative, shy.
They are coaxed, one by one,
and arrive—wary,
but not before
I empty my self
of myself,
drop by drop,
freeing space
for the Beloved
to inhabit.

 

Poet’s Notes. We celebrated the Oscars a week ago. I was happy for Viola Davis when she won Best Supporting Actress for her role in Fences. But that part of her acceptance speech that passionately declared, “We’re the only artists who know how to celebrate a life!” gave me pause. “But how about writers?” I protested telepathically. “Without writers, actors have nothing to perform.”

Surely this marvelously talented actress simply misspoke. I suppose her exuberance for many Black actors and filmmakers winning many awards this year in stark contrast to last year’s “Oscar’s So White” surely led to this misspeak. But I wonder. For compared to all other art forms, the art of writing is the least visible to the public. A case of out of sight, out of mind? I must admit when I watch a particularly moving film, I sometimes question why I do what I do—exiling myself to the lonesome confines of a world that could only be seen on the page—that is, if someone else would even go through the effort of actually buying my book and reading it!

It’s easy to be seduced by the power of fame and celebrity and hype. And I am occasionally taunted by it. When those times come, as when Viola extolled actors’ great, loud, violent power to emote the truth and beauty we writers quietly write on the page, I ask myself: “If no one ever read what you wrote, would you still write?” And the answer that screams itself from deep within me unequivocally cries out a resounding, “Yes!”

That’s how I know I am—like Viola, surely—living my life’s purpose. And that, even though the whole world might be completely indifferent or oblivious to what I create. And that, even if the truth and beauty embedded in what I do were seen by no one else but me. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If a beautiful rose bloomed and died in the desert un-witnessed by anyone, was it still beautiful, and did it even live?

(All rights reserved. Copyright © 2017 by Victoria G. Smith. For updates on her author events & publications, go to VictoriaGSmith.com. “Like” her on Facebook at Author Victoria G. Smith. “Follow” her on Twitter @AuthorVGSmith