Sunday, August 14, 2011

Stupid Muse

It is a hard thing to write a poem. To write anything means to sit here and rattle the few coins in the tin cup of my brain. I want to shape shift out of the hours a small song to keep me company but there is nothing that rises out of the tin shape to mist itself into music.
I wonder sometimes if there are pots where stews of poems are simmered –year after year.  And how am I do make such a hearty concoction when I cannot even tame a tea cup to make a heated surface?
I plug myself into a book and unplug myself out. I rope my mind for another throw at the heifer I want to brand. I race along the wheels of the train that is steaming away. There is not a single time that I am able to get the words to do what I wish them to do.
Not a single time. 
All the poems I write seem like water vapor.  They seem like mist. They seem like steam.  Except I do not see them.  They are here. In my head.  I feel their push and shove and anxiety. I have no vent to let them out.  They boil inside me.
When I sit down, only prose puckers my lips. Only these stupid words ---of prose----press their lips to the paper and leave their lipstick marks. It is infuriating.  I do not like these strumpets.
Why is it that prose stampedes out of the fenced areas of the mind---breaking through fences of barbed wire and wood—to hoof freely about the far countries of language?  Why can’t poems stampede out in the same damn way?
I am fed up of waiting.  All I seem to do is sit here and wait for a Muse that never shows up. Inconstant. Fickle. Absent. Stupid Muse.
Even when he does show up he doesn’t teach me much.  He prattles on and on about nonsense and gives me a headache.  Sometimes I want to swat him. The Muse is a very poor boss.
Sometimes I feel quite desperate.  I feel like ripping up books of poetry.  I suppose this is the reason why everyone wants to write poetry—but don't----it is because they have gone mad. Those who do manage to write poetry have overcome insanity to refrain-- from ripping books of poetry to bits --for discrete intervals of time--during which they have made a few poems. They have become spiders and they have been able to --like the spiders all about the garden--make fragile invisible nets to catch small flies of words and make them visible --after sweating their own blood ---over the hidden nets.  I don't know if I can do this. Sweat blood ---over my own nets of mind--- to catch the flies of words. I don't know if can be a spider.

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