Poems bemoaning the muse.

[jd4george]

From threads read, to emails and personal messages exchanged, I know we all write them... little poems deriding the muse... cursing her (or him)...

If you're like me, most of the time they languish somewhere in our files, feeding our irritation. They're honest, and real... but not necessarily something we want our name on... at least not in public.

Well, this thread is a place for them. After all, we poets are perverse enough to enjoy seeing other poets squirm with the same afflictions we have.

(You know it's true!)

Fair being fair, I'll post one of the many I've spewed out. Then, come on... time to show that bitch (prick) who's really in charge!

 

[jd4george]

Harsh Mistress




I caress the alphabet,
working phrases into a frenzy
beneath my hands.

Sentences climax,
peaking in wave
upon wave of words.

Finished, I reach
for my cigarettes,
looking for a smile

of satisfaction. There’s none.
Dominatrix Poetica,
you are a cruel mistress.

 

[BooMerengue]

I want to write tracts and tomes
I want to write mountains of poems
My muse isn't dead,
but he's out in the shed
I think that he's really a gnome.

 

[jd4george]

Boo... I think I saw that little sucker hiding in my garden. I thought he was a garden pest, and put out my Hav-a-heart Trap. (He seems to be partial to raspberry marshmellow fluff... just like the groundhogs).

I promise, I'll release him if I catch him.

Thanks for chiming in!

 

[champagne1982]

Morning Muse

Words flow from me like water,
Each drop insignificant;
Added to the flood,
Dangerous things.

Wondering at their weight,
Some heavy as lead,
Or they're weightless,
Well, almost.

Asked what inspires,
Your laughter,
Wakes my,
Muse.

 

[Miss Oatlash]

In case...

...you missed this Ode to My Muse:

Desperately Seeking Calliopeia

 

[Angeline]

Here's one I wrote a few years ago:

A-Mused?

What gives rise to poetry?

The dance of words across a page,
tradition carried down from sage,
or music played in metered rhyme,
fluting phrase in voice sublime?

Do memories our hearts enfold
live again in new words told?
And must poems follow any rule?
Must poems belong to any school?

Do poems improve when poets rage?
Do egos fret poems on a stage?
Can grace be won from such a game?
Are poets singed by ire’s flame?

The answer seems simple to me:
Muse swims within perspective’s sea,
so any sincere words might trace
a smile on dreamer-reader's face.

If reader feels words hold élan,
then poet plays as reader’s Pan.

 

[tungtied2u]

My offering

I wrote this one a few months ago....

We Interrupt this Program

You floated in on electric ether
Stabbing at my synapses
Grabbing and rearranging
My circuitry

Shorting out my point of view
Giving birth thru words
Energized imaginings
Expanded vision

Telegraphed observances
Dots become dashes
Shadowing substance
Alters message

With simulcast conciseness
Wavelengths realign
Broadcasting unison
Loud and clear

Speaking with one voice

 

[Angeline]

Here's another that sorta applies. I wrote it a long while back, and have been reworking it every few months since. Muse is all well and good, but there's a lot to be said for dictionaries, thesauri, and rewrites, too.

A Brief History of Poetry

First come letters.

Those silly squiggles
elude my understanding
until they stop wiggling,
learn to behave, marry
themselves to meaning,

so when it rains I know that

r
a
i
n

is the same as those drops
battering my window.

Words multiply like rabbits,
in pairs, in multitudes.
They group, boarding the ark of me.

They parade in sentences,
spill down pages, strut, dance,
caper over my imagination.

The books I read are zoos
with the cage doors let open.
Restive words clamor out
growling, tearing at their bindings.

Words leap from dictionaries, storybooks
magazines, billboards, conversations,
until finally I understand
what they've been whispering
all along

Write me down.

 

[OT]

written pretty darn long ago ...


moody muse


with so many words from which to choose
the poet gives up and asks the muse

the muse looks away as if not to care
"just pick one of those, and take that one there"

she explains that it's easy, he just has to look
they're in alphabetical order in Webster's book

the muse rants on, now in a huff
"it's not like anyone reads this stuff"

"you think you're original? clever? profound?
there's more to poems than rhyming sound"

"Every word here has been used before
what makes you think that the readers want more?"

she's not being helpful so he forges ahead
just a few more lines before going to bed

softening slightly she peeks at his verse
she's a little surprised, she expected much worse

she continues to read; she likes what he's written
the words work their magic; she's once again smitten

long into the night she stays by his side
as long as he's willing she'll be his guide

the words come alive and dance on the page
the muse and the poet -- together are sage

 

[Angeline]

written pretty darn long ago ...


moody muse


with so many words from which to choose
the poet gives up and asks the muse

the muse looks away as if not to care
"just pick one of those, and take that one there"

she explains that it's easy, he just has to look
they're in alphabetical order in Webster's book

the muse rants on, now in a huff
"it's not like anyone reads this stuff"

"you think you're original? clever? profound?
there's more to poems than rhyming sound"

"Every word here has been used before
what makes you think that the readers want more?"

she's not being helpful so he forges ahead
just a few more lines before going to bed

softening slightly she peeks at his verse
she's a little surprised, she expected much worse

she continues to read; she likes what he's written
the words work their magic; she's once again smitten

long into the night she stays by his side
as long as he's willing she'll be his guide

the words come alive and dance on the page
the muse and the poet -- together are sage

Did you post this before? It seems familiar, In any case, it's so nice to see you posting again, pinocchio.

 

[annaswirls]

found this one cleaning my files


Quick! Don’t think!

pounding loud flashes in my head
all the while demanding
silence!
darkness!

chew crunch ice
cool from inside
does not help

tastes like
all the times I finish that poem with fear
that it will never happen again
sit and spill unplanned words
onto paper
like milk you did not know
would seep through cracks onto
bare toes

cold shock
better than dry

waking up empty burn
in middle of back
spread like mold
dust and string
until numb

chewing ice
to feel
something
filling in

memorizing the notes
fingers mindless on keys
until you think
and it all disappears

shhhh
quiet...

 

[jd4george]

I knew it.... I knew it... I knew it!

We all have these diatribes hanging around, and I find it wonderful to know that other folks are scratching... or breaking out in hives... or banging their head somewhere convenient... or searching for the last drops in the bottle... or wishing they weren't out of weed... or simply developing new facial tics!

I've got a couple more hidden away somewhere, though the "typewriter" references will severly date me!

(Groans as he gets up, and hobbles away from the keyboard).

 

[DeepAsleep]

Two on the muse

When I Get My Hands On You...

why is it so easy when it's effortless
and so goddamned hard when
i really want to do it?

i'll let you woo your muse
as much as you want,
but when I catch mine
i'm gonna punch it in the face,
then fuck it in the eyes!

~~

Date Raping Poetry

i wanna slip rufies in Calliope's drink
and see what's under her toga -
oh, to be a nervous frat-boy,
wondering if that li'l puss-puss
is shaved, or if unruly curls
keep her panties from touching
her skin.

fondling the muse with sweaty palms
and nervous licks of the lips,
i'd bind her hand and foot and
keep her in the closet, only
opening the door to beat her
with a keyboard until the welts
that were raised said:
qwertyuiop
asdfghijkl;'

then maybe I could sleep at night.

~D.A.

 

[Angeline]

Eureka!

I knew I had another one of these somewhere...

Musing on My Muse

Would I know my muse if she spoke to me?
Would I simply learn that she shares my name,
keeping my mirror silent company?
Is belief poet's faith or blind fool's game?

Some poems rush forth much like a waterfall,
While others weep out slowly tear by word.
I've never listened for my muse's call,
but simply written what my mind's ear heard.

And yet my heart knows there is more to world
Than what my pen can write or eyes can see.
If my subconscious cannot be uncurled,
It matters not: the end's still poetry.

I embrace all my words that once begun
Result in poems where mind and muse are one.

 

[*Catbabe*]

Re: Eureka!

I knew I had another one of these somewhere...

Musing on My Muse

Would I know my muse if she spoke to me?
Would I simply learn that she shares my name,
keeping my mirror silent company?
Is belief poet's faith or blind fool's game?

Some poems rush forth much like a waterfall,
While others weep out slowly tear by word.
I've never listened for my muse's call,
but simply written what my mind's ear heard.

And yet my heart knows there is more to world
Than what my pen can write or eyes can see.
If my subconscious cannot be uncurled,
It matters not: the end's still poetry.

I embrace all my words that once begun
Result in poems where mind and muse are one.

A sonnet? You are one twisted chicky. No wonder we love you so...

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: Eureka!

A sonnet? You are one twisted chicky. No wonder we love you so...

Yeah? Well I love you too, axe murderess.

 

[OT]

Did you post this before? It seems familiar, In any case, it's so nice to see you posting again, pinocchio.

yep. Written, submitted and left to languish among my many other missives.

and, um, if I'm pinocchio, then I've been a very very good boy. (notice the missing nose)

 

[Angeline]

yep. Written, submitted and left to languish among my many other missives.

and, um, if I'm pinocchio, then I've been a very very good boy. (notice the missing nose)

I always knew you were a good boy. A real boy, too. Just look out for Monstro and stay away from Pleasure Island (not that you'll listen).

 

[*Catbabe*]

yep. Written, submitted and left to languish among my many other missives.

and, um, if I'm pinocchio, then I've been a very very good boy. (notice the missing nose)

Hey, I would stick with pinocchio, OT, my friend. I appear to be living proof that you could do worse.



Cat aka Axe murderess



P.S. They never proved anything..

 

[The_Fool]

Hey, I would stick with pinocchio, OT, my friend. I appear to be living proof that you could do worse.



Cat aka Axe murderess



P.S. They never proved anything..

Just one look and they knew it was true....

 

[*Catbabe*]

Just one look and they knew it was true....

*looking down*


I had no idea my axe was showing....

 

[twelveoone]

the muse abuses
me
i'll get even
right?

 

[Syndra Lynn]

I want to write tracts and tomes
I want to write mountains of poems
My muse isn't dead,
but he's out in the shed
I think that he's really a gnome.

Boo, this is great!

Here is a little piece of my own.


Ugly Muse

ugly fucking muse
on dark emotions feeds
sucks me dry, makes me cry
brings me to my knees

I scream and flail
she laughs and smiles
till tear-stained paper lies,
stained with ink,
a thing of beauty
at my feet

vicious witch!
all along she knew
cathartic healing
for my soul




whatever-

Syn

 

[Tathagata]

my muses are myriad
as are emotions
as are realities


the crooked hunchbacked stone muse of pain
hammers at my heart
his sickle sharpened by a life time
of spinning an emotional grindstone

my green fairy muse
who hides in a bottle and lets me see
the words that hide in corners
and frees my fingers
from convention


my buddha muse
detached and unworried
it sits in half smile
half shadow
half dream
and whispers secrets in sanskrit
deep into my brain
where they dance until
they become words i understand


And Woman
ahh this fair enigma
challenges all I believe
all I know
and no matter where i go
or who I am
the urge to adore, worship, and protect
draws both
the best and worst from me
all in the rice paper name
of love