The last thing a young artist should do in poetry or any other

Host: The evening drifted slow over a downtown loft, where paint and coffee mingled in the air. A broken record player spun the faint echo of Miles Davis, the needle crackling like quiet rain on a tin roof. Neon signs from the street below glowed through tall windows, splashing the room in pale pink and electric blue.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, a notebook open across her knees, her pen hovering in midair — hesitant, unsure. Across from her, Jack stood, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, gazing at a half-finished canvas on the wall — a wild, chaotic blend of color, like a storm trying to remember beauty.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder, Jack, if what we’re making even matters? Every time I write, I feel like I’m just chasing someone else’s voice — someone who already said it better.”

Jack: “That’s because you’re listening to too many voices that aren’t yours. Everyone’s out there trying to sound ‘relevant,’ like art’s a subscription service that needs renewing every month.”

Jeeny: “Easy for you to say. You don’t care if people listen.”

Jack: “No, I just stopped mistaking an audience for a soul.”

Host: The light from a passing car sliced through the window, flashing across Jack’s face — sharp, tired, and almost beautiful in its weariness. The city hum below was a kind of heartbeat, low and constant, like the pulse of creation itself — impatient, unending.

Jeeny: “But doesn’t art need to speak to the moment? Isn’t that the point? To reflect what’s happening — the politics, the chaos, the pain?”

Jack: “It’s one thing to reflect. It’s another to be consumed. The moment is a fire — stand too close and you burn, stand too far and you freeze. You want to last? Write from what doesn’t expire.”

Jeeny: “That sounds idealistic. The world’s not patient with artists who don’t trend.”

Jack: “Then the world’s the fool. You think Pinsky cared about ‘what’s trending’ when he wrote? The man said — the last thing a young artist should do is think about what’s in style. He didn’t say that to sound wise. He said it because he’s seen artists drown in imitation.”

Host: The fan spun overhead, its shadows dancing across the walls like restless spirits. A painting of a bird with broken wings hung crooked above the bookshelf — beside it, an old typewriter, the keys worn smooth by years of unspoken words.

Jeeny: “But everything influences us, doesn’t it? The songs we hear, the films we love, the things we scroll through when we can’t sleep. Can anyone truly make something original anymore?”

Jack: “Originality isn’t isolation. It’s honesty. You don’t have to invent a new language — just speak yours without apology.”

Jeeny: “And what if my language sounds childish? What if it’s not enough?”

Jack: “Then it’s the only thing that’s real.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her pen, her eyes flickering toward the half-finished poem in her notebook. Her voice shook — not with fear, but with that raw vulnerability artists know too well: the kind that bleeds truth.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe art is selfish? That we just create to make sense of our own mess? And that all this talk about ‘truth’ is just another kind of ego?”

Jack: “Of course it’s selfish. But that’s the point. The best art is a confession, not a sermon. You’re not saving anyone — you’re just showing them your wound and saying, Look, it bleeds like yours.”

Jeeny: “That’s… cruelly beautiful.”

Jack: “No, it’s just honest. You think Van Gogh cared about fashion when he painted fields and stars? He painted what burned in him. That’s why he’s still here — and the ones who followed style are dust.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed through the open window, fluttering the pages of Jeeny’s notebook. The city howled softly in the distance, as if in agreement.

Jeeny: “You really believe the world still rewards that kind of purity?”

Jack: “The world doesn’t have to. Eternity will.”

Jeeny: “That sounds like something only someone who’s already given up would say.”

Jack: “Or someone who’s finally learned to stop begging for applause.”

Host: The loft fell into a fragile silence, broken only by the faint click of the record’s needle repeating its loop. Outside, the neon sign buzzed, its light pulsing like a tired heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You ever envy them — the ones who write what people want to hear? The poets with sponsors, the musicians on billboards? The architects who build glass temples instead of meaning?”

Jack: “No. I pity them. They build palaces of applause, but their foundations are hollow. Once the clapping stops, the walls collapse.”

Jeeny: “But don’t they still live easier?”

Jack: “Sure. But peace doesn’t live in comfort. It lives in creation. Every real artist learns that the hard way.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, the kind of smile that hides both pain and admiration. The record skipped, then resumed, as if time itself had hesitated to listen.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been listening too much to the noise. But it’s hard, Jack. The world doesn’t make room for quiet voices.”

Jack: “Then make them listen. Not by shouting — by staying still long enough that they feel the silence pressing against their walls.”

Jeeny: “You talk like art’s a weapon.”

Jack: “It is. The only one that leaves scars that heal instead of destroy.”

Host: The light shifted, the skyline now a faint violet, the city slowing into its midnight rhythm. Jeeny closed her notebook gently, as if sealing a promise.

Jeeny: “So if I stop caring about what’s in style, what’s left?”

Jack: “What’s real. What you love. What keeps you up at night.”

Jeeny: “And if no one understands it?”

Jack: “Then you’ve done it right. The moment everyone understands you, you’ve already started lying.”

Host: She laughed, soft and sad, the kind of laughter that’s half confession, half relief. Jack moved closer to the window, watching the city lights blur through the glass — like tears that refused to fall.

Jeeny: “I used to write for approval. Every poem felt like a test. I’d read the latest magazines, mimic their rhythm, their ‘edge,’ their cleverness. But the more I copied, the less I recognized myself.”

Jack: “That’s because you were painting someone else’s reflection. You forgot the mirror was yours.”

Host: The wind blew harder now, rattling the old windows. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, fading into the city’s hum. The moment hung between them — quiet, fragile, alive.

Jeeny: “Do you ever get tired of being this sure?”

Jack: “Every day. But that’s the price of knowing which voice in your head is yours.”

Jeeny: “And the others?”

Jack: “They’ll keep talking. That’s their job. Yours is to outlast the noise.”

Host: Jeeny nodded, eyes glistening in the dim light. She opened her notebook again, this time without hesitation. Her pen moved, slow at first, then faster, scratching out lines like sparks against paper.

Jack watched, the faintest smile touching his lips — not triumph, but recognition.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder if Pinsky was right — that art should borrow from what we love, not from what’s loved?”

Jack: “He wasn’t just right. He was merciful. Because in the end, every artist dies, but what they admired — that stays alive inside the work.”

Host: The record ended, its needle lifting with a soft click. The silence that followed was pure — the kind that feels like a blessing.

Outside, the city breathed, the lights glowed, and in that tiny room, something sacred stirred — a young artist finally choosing not to chase the world, but to listen to the quiet echo of her own soul.

And in that silence, art — real, raw, and untamed — began.