My Muse and I are not on speaking terms

My Muse and I are not on speaking terms.

The noise of busy life from all around,

The chattering voices of others less encumbered

Are mocking comfort, each syllable

A ridicule of my empty page.

Not a word she speaks, but lets my pointless pen

Hurl its hollow words like a guilty man

Who would win his case with shallow repetition.

I speak and say nothing

Think but feel nothing but

Shudder alone.

Perhaps I asked too much, or else too often

For that one last touch upon my lips

That forms my words, gathers my thoughts

To bright music bound with hollow chords.

So still I listen, I wait, and wonder why.

Still I hear nothing from my love.

I learn nothing.

I write

Nothing.

And all the verse I write belies my fear

That I have chased her away,

That in saying nothing she spoke,

And seeing too soon that I had not

Capacity to hear, has left me

Dead and cold.

So I, alone among the crowd around me,

Am doomed to dark and silent struggle,

To stumble all around what I would say,

And hammer out more undercrafted verse.

Reviews

[Helen Crutchett]

Nothing "undercrafted" in this! I think your 'muse' is well and truly alert. An enjoyable well written poem my friend!

Helena