 Poetry: July 08, 2020 Issue [#10263] |
This week: When Your Muse Takes the Reins Edited by: Fyn  
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When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.~~John F. Kennedy
O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention. ~~William Shakespeare
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.~~Leonard Cohen
Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. ~~Robert Frost
The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men. ~~Alfred Lord Tennyson
A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it. ~~Jean de La Fontaine
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. ~~Thomas Gray
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Of late I find myself writing down odd lines as they occur to me; especially when I think there's a poem in there. That thought hits and an idea forms. With the writing of the line, that follow-up idea stays in place. I'll let it ruminate, mix with other scraps and when the brain juices come to a boil, I'll pour out a poem.
I think I know where it is going, what it is about. I have a plan in my head; an outline if you like. Then my muse rises up, grabs hold of my fingers, and, suddenly, I am tossed to the side of the trail and my muse takes over and drives the poem somewhere else entirely.
Recently, Ren the Klutz!  sent me a marvelous puzzle. The picture was of a fantastical library with dragons curled up next to the roaring fire, gargoyles curled on newel posts, books galore, wise owls peering myopically from top shelves, fairies cavorting, and other creatures just scampering about. My initial thought was that I wanted to do the puzzle and then just crawl inside it and stay there. There's a poem, I thought.
When I started to write it, metaphors flying about finding corners, and how pieces must mesh well (not being forced) I suddenly found myself writing not about crawling into this wonderful puzzle, but the current world situation. Which is, indeed, a puzzle to solve. Nowhere near what I had intended, better, I think. (still working on it!) Darned muse anyway!
Or I'm looking up a word. My muse sees something else over on the next column. Then immediately starts making lists about similar words. In this case: Break up. Hmmm, she wonders, not too much different than break down. You then make up. But you don't make down when it doesn't work out after all; just apply much makeup to cover blotchy eyes. She then moseyed over to where I'd just plugged in my phone.
'So... how come you 'unplug' it, and don't 'plug it out?'
Ever wanted to flick your muse across your desk? She wasn't the slightest bit intimidated.
'Take the word 'cleave,'' she mumbles. 'Means to cut in half. Oh, but it also means to cling together. Don't people ever lose it at weddings wondering which it will end up being?'
fwwwwwinnnng!
No good, my muse has wings, most ineffectual. She just laughs at me.
I'd saved and left a file open, meaning to go back to it later. When I did, that file was still there, but another one was open too!!!
'Here, go here. Not there.'
Didn't even remember the poem. Something I'd started years ago. Side-tracked again.
When I was writing Journey to Jukai, I had the whole book worked out, knew the whole ending, how to wrap up the loose strings, and get the characters where they needed to go. But wait. my dear, sweet muse flies in and changes a whole section with one of the characters and adds in this whole other little scenario which, (sigh) was perfect. She just pulled it out of the ether because it was nothing I'd ever even thought about. I was happily clicking away and suddenly there's this sad, ancient lady wandering in the forest. Who knew?
Occasionally, my muse just vanishes. She ups and leaves, with nary a never mind, goodbye or see ya later. (Wonders where muses go on vacation? Into puzzles, maybe?)
She leaves me hanging, high and dry with odd thoughts drying up, shriveling and dying for want of a verse. She pops in weeks later with a 'Didja miss me? Huh? Huh?' Thing is, I did. Sure I muddled through, but the sight of those desiccated thoughts crumbling to dust on my desk haunted me. They refused to dance without her music.
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