Recently, more than one person observed that my poetry tended to be “dark,” “morbid,” even “depressing.” Sorry if I tend to write the truth about reality. Amid birth, death, and disappointment in between, each of us must find our own joy. Still, in the interest of expanding my range, and in pleasing some (most?) of my readers, I’m experimenting with lighter, less true poems. If you hold an opinion on my work in generally, or the stated distaste for my “tell it like it is” poetry, lob it this way. I can take it – even welcome it. That said . . . on with today’s show . . .
Everyone needs a muse, not only artists. True, muses are typically associated with artistic endeavors. The artist who is essentially creating works of art out of the void, may especially need extraordinary inspiration, and anyone with a goal and motivation can use a little help. So, here we go. Alert your muse, if you have one.
Muses Musing
(A Very Silly Poem by a Bemused Poet)
What is it muses muse upon?
Artists plead for their preferential inspiration
but what if the muses muse or even snooze
and care less than a pot of ink for artists’ wishes
Why do muses always hover above the floundering artist?
god or goddess-like dispensing stingy favors
Scrooge-like in their lack of generosity
and always garbed in debutant gossamer
Scarlet prancing for Rhett, but neither would know
a muse if one rested on their heads
Muses, no flights of angels, to be sure
too busy musing on their own bright “wings”
while the poet slouches, pen in drooping hand
But wait – muses musing musthave an object holding their attention
Aha! Muses muse with one another while
the musician’s fingers halt upon the keys or strings
the painter’s brushes turn color-hardened
the actor forgets lines memorized
the dancer trips on nothing and goes down
Interpret as you will. The muses’ favorite topic is each other and us
in particular humans born smelling of artistic musk
But helping is another thing entirely
“Why just look at that one,” Melinda Muse points a long, thin finger
She directs her circle drinking vaporous tea
pinkies wagging above their cups
“She actually believes she has a phrase of two. How a-musing!”
“Poor dear,” sympathizes Mabel Muse. “So sad and so mistaken.”
“Someone should disabuse her of her notion,” Maynard Muse suggests.
[What!? You assumed a muse must be of the female gender. Male misogynist, to be sure.]
“Well, it won’t be me does that deed!” sniffs Melinda
as her nose ascends toward the ceiling
“Why ever not?” parries Maynard. “Of all of us, you are
the least likely to go a musing.”
“I beg your pardon,” Melinda snorts as her nose retreats toward her clavicle
“Now, now, you two,” tsks Mabel. “We all need our breaks now and then.”
“Now and then!” Mindy Muse chimes in. “While you are jawing, I’m out there
with a workload of hundreds groveling in their muesli for inspiration crumbs.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Melinda queries knowingly
“I’m on my way to my next gig, thank you very much, you skinny bitch.”
Mindy bristles, not amused
“Now, now ladies,” Maynard gently cautions. “This is exactly why we boys get a bad rap.
Every artist thinks we’re in league with you withholding spider widows.
Not one of you has artistic muscle sitting in your musty muslin
“Speak for yourself, you mustachioed lethargic know-it-all!” Mabel sniffs.
“I’m out there with a caseload that rivals an underpaid social worker.”
“Blah. Blah. Blah. And Ho-hum,” Melinda pats her open mouth.
“Some of us choose to only take on guaranteed talent.”
“Even so, I think one of us should help,” says Mabel hopefully.
“Then you go, Miss Goody Two Shoes,” challenges Melinda
“Oh, to purgatory with all this. I’ll go,” Maynard musters his gallantry.
“Here, hold this cup of tea for me. I’ll be back in a flash.”
(Maynard mustrates himself and exits downward)
The three remaining muses calm down, exhausted from their conversations
that fail to inspire even themselves
. . . See how they prattle. See how they run on.
Not a fragment of their discourse discerns the artists’ plight
Note the shiny navel-gazing and paucity of empathy
The plot so predictable. The characters all set in their ways.
The muses abide in the lower case and have no creative capital to give
We poets, singers, dancers, actors are on our own
Muses may muse on us, but not our songs nor on our poems.
Signed, the Poet and Her Absent Muse
Background
Although today’s poem’s subject is muses, personally, I’ve never sought the assistance of a muse. Don’t believe in them. Don’t want to. I’m one of those independent types who enjoys friendship, and who prefers having a partner to not; however, even though humans are a social species, I’ve done my best not to become dependent on others’ help of influence. The reason I chose to write this poem is to suggest to the more dependent and needy that a dose of personal initiative may be in order. Harsh? Perhaps. Good advice? Maybe. Help from others?” Nice when it happens, but not expected.
Dictionary Help from Merriam Webster:
The Muses were the nine Greek goddesses [apparently, the Greeks were gender-biases] who presided over the arts (including music) and literature. A shrine to the Muses was called in Latin a museum. An artist or poet about to begin work would call on his particular Muse to inspire him, and a poem itself might begin with such a call; thus, Homer's Odyssey begins, "Sing to me of the man, Muse" (that is, of Odysseus). Today a muse may be one's special creative spirit, but some artists and writers have also chosen living human beings to serve as their muses.
Exploration
1. Do you believe in inspiration? If so, where do you think it comes from?
2. Is your basic nature dependent or independent? Do you enjoy whichever you consider you are?
3. Any muses in your life? If so, what is your relationship to him/her?
4. Does the conversation among the muses provide any insights about the nature of inspiration?
5. What is your muse’s name? What is its favorite color? *
(See a partial transcript below from Monty Python’s “Holy Grail,” from the scene, “Bridge of Death.” – just for the fun of it.
*. . . KEEPER: Stop! Who approaches the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, 'ere the other side he see.
ROBIN: Ask me the questions, bridge-keeper. I'm not afraid.
KEEPER: What is your name?
ROBIN: Sir Robin of Camelot.
KEEPER: What is your quest?
ROBIN: To seek the Holy Grail.
KEEPER: What is the capital of Assyria?
ROBIN: I don't know that! Auuuuuuuugh!
KEEPER: Stop! What is your name?
GALAHAD: Sir Galahad of Camelot.
KEEPER: What is your quest?
GALAHAD: I seek the Grail.
KEEPER: What is your favorite color?
GALAHAD: Blue. No yel-- Auuuuuuuugh!
KEEPER: Heh heh. Stop! What is your name?
ARTHUR: It is Arthur, King of the Britons.
KEEPER: What is your quest?
ARTHUR: To seek the Holy Grail.
KEEPER: What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
ARTHUR: What do you mean? An African or European swallow?
KEEPER: What? I don't know that! Auuuuuuuugh!
BEDEVERE: How do know so much about swallows?
ARTHUR: Well, you have to know these things when you're a king you know. . . .
_____________________________
Enjoy your muse – if you can find him or her.
Over and Out,
Jack Pine Savage
"Dark" is it they're calling you? "Depressing," too? Don't feel bad, you're in good company.
ReplyDeleteMy muse is a dose of strong coffee. My other muse the inspiration behind my creations. I don't see a muse as being a real being like a guardian angel. I don't know where inspiration springs from. I do know it waxes and wanes. It's best to just start doing whatever it is you do, then go back later and gussy it up.
Everyone has inspirations of one kind or another. Some write, some paint, some are good at genocide, others at exterminating the exterminators. God help us.
I believe I'm independent, but that's a delusion. I need someone to push against, like hot air in a balloon. I don't enjoy being dependent, but I'm resigned to it. Not feeling any pain anyway.
Muses in my life? My squibs start as tweets. There's a person who "likes" them, so I consider her my squib muse. There's a person who always comments on my blog, so he's my blog muse. (Better get going on that.)
The muses in your poem are catty and self centered. I see them as did the Greek lawgiver Solon, as keys to the good life, bringing friendship and prosperity.
My guardian angel's name is Miguel and he likes all the colors.
OK, Catherine, you've had a day off. Let's get dark.
I said sayonara to Muse long ago when the plain brutality of hard work paired with perseverance bludgeoned this little guy (or gal) to death. I don't fall for Writer's Block either. Stephen King describes his muse as, "a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you." (p. 144 - I know you have the book.)
ReplyDeleteWith five kids and constant noise around me, it's sheer will and a greater force far more influential than a Muse that pushes me on through my work. (Right now as I type this, one kid made lunch for himself, his sister bellyaching that she wants some too. Dad chimes in with directions loaded with plenty of shoulds and "Mluvte cesky!" Now that the meal has been dispensed among the siblings, there's smacks and groans of pleasure as the food is consumed. Did I mention that silence is overrated, too? Any gift of inspiration is just that. But, I would argue that, in lieu of a muse, I do tap into my faith, which is still a request from a higher power, minus the fairy dust, wings optional.
But I want to talk about something else that got my attention. The line, "I’m experimenting with lighter, less true poems." This poem on muses is loaded with truths and while it depicts a silly scene - which is charming and playful in itself - you're still addressing a greater truth - that humans, in this case specifically artists, seek guidance from an external being. In this way, you are consistent with, rather than deviating from, your theme of truth-telling.
And lastly, I would ask, are there any truths to be found in joy? I think so.