Luna and I went walking yesterday morning (Friday) at the Fulton County Fairgrounds/Shooting Range, and we walked down the new road connecting to 62/412. Anyway, it was a sunny morning, hot and humid, but down in the valley where the creek runs into the City Park Pond, a heavy fog obscured everything beyond the pond. This creek here is not especially pretty. It is usually muddy and full of moss, but it looked cool in the fog.
Enough about the picture--the poem that I have for you today is revised from an idea that I had written up in 2005. I had long thought of rewriting the poem, but it merely seemed like a "whiner," so I never did. This revision hardly resembles the other.
Anyhow, I, and most poets I suppose, complain quite often about the lack of inspiration. We do it a lot because it is such a frustrating feeling to what to do something, to want to get some good words, lines, and verses down on paper. I mean every poet and artist knows what she or he wants to do-create that sucker! But what is it? How do you get IT in your mind. Well, most of us poets simply personify our brain's creative urges and make them human-like. That way, when we struggle to come up with ideas, we can blame somebody else. This poem examines whether that "blame-game" is really something that is wise to play. Enjoy!
Waiting for the Muse
Because she’s not with me, I wait,
Veiling fogs adrift in my mind.
She knows the needs I contemplate,
And so her absence here is most unkind.
Did I speak that note? Did she hear
The flat impatience of the word?
She has not answered yet. I fear
She means to keep my petty rhymes obscured?
Maybe, my verse has offended
Or stupidly shot off the mark?
Maybe our poems have ended?
Who knows clear truth here in this inky dark?
I suppose maybe she hates
How I endlessly test her love,
When she’s been forced by binding Fates
To lend my stone-like brain an uphill shove.
Sisyphus! Sisyphus!
You cannot be my muse!
I lost her interest in my world?
Oh, my! What’s that I might have done?
My entire essence around her curled
Like a transient rainbow wraps around the sun.
To miss the beat! To miss the beat!
To smell ambrosial food and not to eat!
Oh! I only wish that it was easy
To believe all this time she’s been busy.
Let’s not say that!
Who else does she inspire?
I am her favorite
Poet, of whom, she’ll never tire.
I assume she has no other, yet her
Attitude suggests that I’ve upset her
And so she’s gone off to find a better
Poet. --Nah! But…
Rather than wait for her, I’ll go get her.
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