Death of Muse

My muse, what words have bruised thy lips so severely
That you cannot now bear for me to touch them?

If thee were a true poetess,
wouldn’t pale truth be thy tongue’s default,
And cold poetry be thy soul’s instinct?

Wouldn’t thy heart’s will for wandering
Have happened without my being by thy side?

Or was I never to have parted from thee at all?

Perhaps thy longing could yet bring thee to being thyself,
As though all this never happened?

As if no love was ever discerned,
Or yet ever discovered between us,
As if we never spoke as we spake at all
With no ground of enmity between us?

As if thy heart never commanded me absolutely not to go,
Nay permitted me ever to stay?

Reviews

[Eilis]

Poetry rests most deeply in those moments where we are on a precipice. The moments before we know the outcome and are only discovering an inkling or interest. Those moments of awakening.

Part of this passion and thirst for the writing seems to be anchored there in that—in that desire to constantly be in the middle of discovery and have the mind and heart activated by that hunger.

Your poem made me think of this. The elusive muse, the elusive love, the elusive poetess. All the things on the tip of the brain and tongue that keep us chasing.

This felt like an ode to that hunger to create that keeps me chasing the right words. I, like Jacob, liked the form and language you chose. It speaks to the timelessness of the thing. Good stuff.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I really like this piece...it has that Old Poetry feel...with the scheme and the language used.
"As if we never spoke as we spake at all"
I have tried "spaking" but ain't much good at it.....:)))
Nice image with "tongue's default"---
j.

[I Shred This Cabbage]

Ah but dear poet, can’t you relate
That these words you speak will become words you spake?
Some as happy accident and some as sad mistake,
Some to carry sorrow and some to carry weight :)