The Artist

She came from a village small,

Sepulchral mills and bingo hall;

Where Blackrobes traded beaver pelts

And bruins feast on running smelts

By ruins of idle industry;

Where frowning, peeling clapboard homes

Harbour mould’ring and unspoken tomes

And the remnants of a beaten race;

A listless, best-forgotten place.

Zeal and gumption she did not lack,

Though belt-clasp had scarred her naked back;

South on the Greyhound,

Wings unbound,

To the edge of waters half-Lake and half-Sea,

To seek her own Futurity.

.

The Queen’s Park worthies a hand did lend

Ancestral imprudence a chance to mend;

A prestigious academy;

The first of all her family

Whose lurking shades even Facebook friends can never see.

She found a home beneath the Tower,

Gable, dormer, shaggy linden bower;

Painted brick, fanlights and a silver birch,

Herein she made her laic church,

And was blessed with an Identity.

.

Condos, food trucks, Chinese signs,

Bixi, Uber, streetcar lines;

Rompers, jeggings, yoga tights,

As faces flash dreamy in neon night;

Dionysian harmony.

.

Thick-framed specs gave artist’s vision,

Paint and protest, her newfound mission;

Profs and critics alike are wowed,

Spirit of the 6ix on canvas shroud;

Acrylic urban symphony.

.

Smoke’s and Hero, Mongol hotpot, gastro pubs,

GoodLife and yoga, lest she’s getting too chubs;

The housemates crowding the Gable and Bay,

NOW and X-tra there to show the way

To haunts of modish infamy.

The rent keeps growing, hikes ‘pon hikes,

The junkies keep nicking her fixxy bikes;

The gurls want to hang at such and such,

But OSAP gives her just so much;

What’s a stone-broke maiden’s remedy?

.

Perchance the Siren’s steaming java brew

Will perk her schooling through,

Keep awake a fighting chance

For art and drama, Instagram romance,

And stave off cruel monotony.

.

Soccer mom tongues, like flaming brands,

And urn-wash blasts her nimble hands;

With ramen, Goodwill and other thrifts,

She wanes wan and weak on extra shifts

And paints armour for her Dignity.

.

Semester done, the ground deep froze,

Straphangers wrapped in Goose-patched clothes;

A bestie’s gossip three beaus hath jaded;

By the manager each day upbraided;

Darker, longer each night’s lonely melancholy.

.

Snow is high, account is low,

A slick-lipped friend a way doth show,

Where one can sleep in bed the livelong day,

And making rent comes child’s play,

If she’ll lose her old temerity.

.

Faustian deal for a short-term pass,

Riding high on the Rail of Brass;

The speakers moan ‘My Cherry Pie,’

Limelight smooths a fish-white thigh

Tempting gross and grizzled Lechery.

.

Mud and ice mounds clot the yard,

The Sacred Fire sparks slow and hard;

Paint on palette getting dry and stiff,

What harm to seek a bracing whiff

Of secret powdered levity?

.

Rosy cheeks are draining out,

She’s stopped at the curb by the gatekeep lout;

Tramping homeward, heels in hand,

Foot-skin raw with salt and sand,

Her blood boils up a strategy.

.

Trembling digits weld to brush,

Liquid lips in monastic hush;

Solicitous knocking is not answered,

Social affairs are thrice deferred;

She’s blurred in her celerity.

.

Naples yellow, cerulean blue;

The door is locked and the window, too;

Madder red and deep chrome green;

The face in the mirror is long and lean

And laughing most uncannily.

.

A housemate who’s a CAMH worker

Says exams have caused go full berserker

The fair northern artist Maid

To whom all tributes are willing paid

Except, of course, hard Currency.

.

The landlord cried “it’s got to stop;”

“If ought should happen, the rent will drop!”

She grabbed the phone and called a copper

As was only right and proper

To staunch her liability.

.

The officer came, boots and Glock a’glisten;

He crept and stood, and leaned to listen;

He could have heard a dropping pin;

Said, “Ma’am, sorry, but I’m coming in;

It’s all for your security.”

.

The fair maid’s door the copper bashed;

Into her chamber the whole crowd dashed;

‘Mid brushes, paint and flowing hair,

The ghostly Maid was lying there,

Expired upon her Artistry.

.

Snake-tongued gurlfriends shed winsome tears,

Colleagues hid from private fears;

Then eyes of cop and landlord, snitch and weasel,

Turned to the majesty ‘stride the easel,

Awed by the spirit, dabbed and globbed into waves

That could steel the wills of heroes or quake the hearts of knaves.

Yet, on its subject they could not concur;

Those claiming her friendship did equal aver:

“’Tis the Lake, aye, that was her womb!”

“’Tis the Lake, aye, that was her tomb!”

. . .

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Copyright © 2017 by M.G. Warenycia