My mute muse


Once again I wait for you, pen poised:

Muse: come to my bidding…

Yet I know you shudder
at such a crude full-frontal approach –
terrified to be squeezed
beneath my urban, urbane, expectations,
pinned down under any cheap phrase
that clips your range.

For you are like the quetzal bird,
that always dies when caged…
your feathers only shine
when blown apart by the breeze
your eyes sparkle best
across land-less seas.

I put down my pen,
knowing you are flying close as ever,
but mute now.

You will sing again
and brush-tickle my inner ear

…but only when I no longer expect you,
and my notebook’s mislaid.


6 thoughts on “My mute muse

  1. Seems to me that the muse DID come! Lovely little poem fit for the intro to any collection. I didn’t know about the quetzal bird – I assume that the picture is of one. What a beauty – like your muse I hope.

  2. Beautiful poem! I think you interpreted muse’s silence well. It does often feel like we’ve been abandoned by our muse, but sometimes it just means we need to feel instead of listen.

    • Thanks for your kind comment. Yes and I think the route is in a constant state of flux with me – tried and tested methods don’t always remain reliable. We have to keep being creative about being creative…

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