A Muse: Discussions with a Mirror on Tuesday Afternoon
Part I: Not Someone I’d Wish to Meet in the Alley
My muse is a tapestry of images
and events. Some true, some not.
My muse is a herb garden where
tarragon is the only discerning scent,
where all else succumbs to its desire
and will. Its thoughts bend still water
into motion and softness to stone.
It takes, it bends, it destroys,
and floods the heart with tears.
It is grey shadow, it is sharp light,
it is hooded and shapelessly opaque.
It’s bony and it’s starving for attention.
This muse of mine
is most certainly a woman.
Part II: How to Kill a Conversation
For all I know my muse …
is a spoon,
maybe that one chasing off with a dish,
or wait, perhaps that cow who ran off
with the moon. Maybe not – I think it’s quite
likely a dumpty, that silly sod who took
a great fall, and then spread thin as money
at Christmas across the ground while we
all puzzled over which piece went where,
and which came first, the egg or
(The chicken! The chicken!)
at which point metaphor meteors
fall like pearls from sky,
and if Hennie Penny isn’t the most amusing
fowl’s name … although Cocky Locky,
Ducky Lucky, Drakey Lakey,
Goosey Loosey, Gander Lander …
…and I take a sip of sweet fennel tea,
and realise that it’s the only thing
that will shut this bitch up.
Margo’s Poem Tryouts: You and Your Muse