Wednesday, December 3, 2008

The Muse

The Muse

Foolishly I gave away your title
To someone who could never bear it’s weight
Sculpted her into a golden idol
Misused the stars to help create false fate
Illusion can seem real through eager eyes
With second glance the image disappears
The truth so bleak that I preferred the lies
Composing music ears would never hear
I held her close and told her she was God
Ignoring that your presence dwells in all
My righteousness was only a façade
Its writ that pride will come before a fall

The inspiration I could never choose
It’s Consciousness itself that is the muse
Poured by at
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2 comments:

Lorigga said...

I love this one. But I just have to ask, if consciousness itself is the muse, does that mean that there was no muse all along? And by all means, I'm not trying to detract from the poem in the least, it's beautiful. As a side effect I start to think about the spiritual implications and start thinking of a muse as creative inspiration...but if that inspiration was simply an inherent aspect of simply existing then it kind of makes me think if it's still considered "outside" the creative self...

but meh, good poetry will make one think such thoughts, so bravo!

December 4, 2008 at 2:46 PM
Black Crow said...

I prefer to think of it as everything is the muse, all at once, the inspiration being simply existing, so you totally got that aspect. However, viewing it as there is no muse, because if life itself is the inspiration, than it almost means there is no need for inspiration, haha! but that wasnt exactly what I was going for. Nice reading though!It works for me, not that that really matters, but just goes to show we think alike.

Ya, I got the idea for this poem at CSUN while watching leaves falling from trees, realizing that every small sensory detail that has ever occurred in my life could be used as material for creative writing, or for art in general; that simply being alive, and more importantly, AWARE of life, was enough in and of itself to make me happy, and "inspired", to express that inherent truth, held in absolutely everything, one perfect expression of love. In that sense it is life itself that is the art of God and the idea of needing a muse, while being encapsulated within a piece of living art, seemed silly to me, so I wrote this poem.

December 4, 2008 at 9:23 PM

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