The Vals
a poem
On a silent night of full moon
the drink calls to me
like a mermaid's song,
to drown or go on being a soul in torment.
And you won’t see me wander through the streets
or roam your houses when they summon me.
The artist: either dies young, or becomes a whore,
for their soul has a price and their talent
loves them
little.
Whenever possible, it finds another vessel.
It seems that to keep it in situ,
content,
warm and within the body…
The artist must learn to dance with the mermaids.
En una callada noche de luna llena
la bebida me llama
como canto de sirena,
ahogarse o seguir siendo alma en pena.
Y no me verán deambular por sus calles
ni vagar por sus casas al invocarme.
El artista, o muere joven, o se hace prostituto,
pues su alma tiene precio y su talento
le ama poco.
En cuanto puede lo deja por otra vasija.
Parece que para mantenerlo in situ,
contento,
calentito y en el cuerpo...
El artista debe aprender a bailar con las sirenas.
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I write because I have to, but coffee helps.
What struck me is that this feels deeply personal. It doesn’t read like a theory about artists; it reads like someone describing their own battle. The final line isn’t about winning. It’s about surviving. Learning to dance with whatever keeps calling them beneath the surface.
At the same time, it left me wondering. If so much of our torment is filtered through the mind, then doesn’t that also mean the mind holds the possibility of something different? If it can weave a story that traps us, perhaps it can also learn a story that frees us. Maybe the dance isn’t just enduring the mermaids’ song. Maybe it’s discovering that we don’t always have to follow where it leads.