Tracking footprints in the artist’s time travails

“From the grimness of your deathbed you make stunning discoveries:

That you too can die

That there’s no tragedy in dying

And that death is just another of life’s imperatives

Your toothless mouth is a timely reminder that compared to the universe, you’re just a toddler.”

The philosophical words are uttered by the artistic persona in the poem “Toothless Mouth” in David Mungoshi’s “Live Like an Artist”.

Even though man purports to be the master of the universe and architect of his destiny, he is only mortal. Like a toddler, he scantly understands himself, yet he believes the world is there for his poker games.

“Live Like an Artist”, edited by Memory Chirere and published by Bhabhu Books, hoists the reader, like a time traveller into the past, swings him or her back to the present, and serenades him/her into the future through an adeptly woven combination of metaphor, symbolism and imagery.

Through juxtaposition, paradoxical presentation of experiences and prodding, the poet reminds the reader of his or her contribution to both his/her own suffering, hopelessness, and happiness as well as how his/her actions bring the same on others.

Love and hatred, life and death, opulence and poverty, youth and maturity, lack and abundance; are paradoxes of life that function in association as time takes its toll on humanity. Nothing is new and nothing is old; but all is newly old.

The artist purveys that in life we live with death, for death, a necessary end, is the beginning of life, and that same life ascertains death. Such is the nature of the universe. As unfathomable and vain as it is, life still needs to be endured through its seasons, perhaps a fruitful one avails itself.

However, to some, there are more winters than summers, and to others, only summers, so it seems.

It is this realisation that the words hurt, suffering and pain could have been invented just for you, which will hoist you as you engross yourself in David Mungoshi’s “Live Like an Artist”.

Mungoshi’s poems are cathartic, therapeutic and soothing to the soul; such powerful musical allure that hinges on the gates of heaven. The poet hits you with his words, he even sutures your heart as he takes you down memory lane, but you would feel no pain.

Although the body may be burdened through the inevitable passage of time, and death, which always lurks in the hoods of one’s dreams, one gets the feeling that even in the Grim Reaper’s cold fingers, one can still fashion out one’s destiny.

Hurt sometimes is hilariously rewarding, for to love is to be prepared to bleed in the heart, because bleeding is what gives form to life. Such also is the paradox of life, and well, love.

The evocative and thought-provoking repertoire of interactive episodes nostalgically drags the reader along, jolts him out of the present stupor, and catapults him into the imaginary and fruitful future that only the adept poet can muster and envisage for his people.

It is, indeed, through the past that the present can be fashioned for a better tomorrow, only if we “blow the whistle for a foul”, if we follow the artist’s warnings, otherwise “we perish”, (In Our Time).

Not a newcomer to the literary landscape, Mungoshi seems to be imbued with the metaphors of the sun, dew, flowers and the morning, which pervade most of his works. The struggle to keep the body and soul together is checked by the knowledge of the existence of a supernatural force, which, somehow, puts a damper on individual aspirations.

Nature’s armoury, through its seasons, has an effect on the individual’s hour glass; it either breaks or makes him/her.

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