he is dead, she is dead, they are gone
the time for eulogy and reflection has begun
and i ask if you remember
if you remember how they could satirise with such wit and precision that the subject of their barbs would have no choice but to concede and laugh along
and i ask if you remember
if you remember how with a sweeping stroke of the same pen they could capture a mountain range with such clarity that you could hear eagles cry soaring far above in the clouds
and i ask if you remember
if you remember how they could transcribe their feelings and senses to the page with such accuracy and attention to detail that you could feel their lover’s caress, smell their hair
and now they are gone
and i ask if you remember
if you remember where you were when you heard
if you remember what you were doing when you were told
if you remember the pain deep inside
the sudden emptiness within
as the realisation took hold
if you remember whose hand you held for comfort
as the tears began to fall
i ask if you remember
and i know that you do not
for this is the lament for the unknown artist
the lament for the ones for whom there are no accolades for the writers of their eulogies
for the ones for whom recognition was not central to the creative urge
for the ones whose creativity did not extend to the creation of a name for themselves
this is the lament for the ones who painted, and sculpted, and wrote, and drew, and sang, and played, and danced, and created beauty with their very lives because to do otherwise would be to deny the burning in the centre of their souls
this is the lament for the loss of those for whom the full realisation of what has passed will never be known
this is the selfish lament
the lament that in our ignorance of their existence we have been spared the pain of knowing what has gone from this world
the lament for that pain
the pain that would have marked just how enriched our lives could have been
