My poetry Muses are real to me. If you've been reading my blogs for a while, you may recall in prior blogs that I've described the Muses as "fallen angels, smoking cigars and playing poker at the upper left corner of any room I currently inhabit." They're greedy for my attention. I can write a gazillion poems -- and I have -- and such is never enough for them. Greedy muscled angels -- big breasts (though not human boobs so much as a bird's oversize chest for flight) as well as huge steely biceps to operate those huge wings. Colorless or color-replete eyes, depending on your point of view, in that heated light rather than color emanate from their long-lashed orbs. I can continue, but you get the point. They exist and they are not benign -- found the above image in the internet and while it's not quite what I always envisioned with my Muses, it shares with my Muses the sense of a lack of stability even as love exists. Poetry can't be stable.
So, when I finally shook off the perfumed steel feathers my poetry Muses kept dropping on me and work, instead, on a novel, I wondered how the poetry Muses would react.
Well, I got my first response this morning. And I'm relieved. They're not mad. Moreover, they will continue to be generous because, while I was sneezing through their feathers, I honored Poetry. That's my take anyway. My take on what happened this morning, which is that I wrote a new chapter that was scaffolded by one of my poetry books, 5 SHADES OF GRAY. Another scaffolding was the "I Forgot" structure of one of the two poems in Tom Beckett's new and fabulous release,
I'm so relieved.