Description: I had previously submitted this poem some time ago (it was actually from the early 90s - long before I submitted it to ES). I felt it needed a little re-shaping...a little of this and a little of that. Anyway, I changed enough that it made sense to re-submit it. Regarding the poem, art often times, mimics life. This bit of story telling represents the end of a period of writer's block (just a few months). Oddly enough, I wrote about my writer's block to end my writer's block. Who knew :) In any case, enjoy "The Muse".
The Muse -------------------------------------------
He stared into the candle
his thoughts without a cause
A moment's hesitation
when a poet's hand would pause
Of castles evermore
from chances left too late
Nothing said within
his soul could not create
Darkness sat beside him
the candle seemed so dim
The velvet glove of silence
that stole his spirit's vim
Then through the quiet room
came an echo of despair
Soft crying in the night
that filled the moonlit air
The poet could only wonder
of the weeping that he hears
So fearlessly he ventured on
toward the calling tears
Beneath the greatest oak
a brilliance did abound
Frantic full with sorrow
a fallen Muse he found
The rapture of it all
filled him up inside
A moment lost in time
from which to walk beside
"Why, oh fallen muse
do you sit here all alone?"
She sat there poised and paused
in silent reticent tone
"You seem so melancholy
is there something I can do?"
And then she gazed upon his face
her eyes were clouds of blue
"To what, dear poet, do I owe
such eternal gratitude?
I inspire none the more
and have been cast to solitude."
"I am but a simple Muse
I incite the poet's heart."
He remembered words he couldn't write
it tore his soul apart
He knew the reason why
for this fallen muse's curse
The silence in his thoughts
for timeless words in verse
"Before the dawn becomes the day
I'll return you to the light.
I'll cast away your spell
and soothe away your endless night."
Her eyes were shut with promises
to reckon her dismay
The poet left her there
taking care to find his way
Returning to his dwelling place
and to the candle's glow
Like flowing rivers in the spring
he expressed for all to know
From that which held him back
had surely passed him by
Answers to the questions
in lyric songs to fly
To keep his promise true
he went to find his Muse
For dawn had broken way
her hex would soon diffuse
Yet beneath the father oak
he saw no tempest bound
And in her resting place
beauty blossomed from the ground
A brilliant rose of deepest red
that bloomed before his eyes
From joyous content he wept
her gift to him of no good-byes
Yet beneath the father oak
he saw no tempest bound
And in her resting place
beauty blossomed from the ground
This was my favorite part. Thank you for sharing another well written tale. The Muse as a beautiful woman is common but not worn out for your use of it. Your ways with words could make the most cliché entertaining.
Submission Name: The Muse
