Erato
My poems arise from a chair.
At least I’m always sitting in one
when verse springs from my fingers.
I circle the plush recliner
three times before resting
in her embrace, like a dog
about to lie down for the night.
I burn incense
and perform oblations,
daily rituals of reverence
for her inscrutable knowledge
of what to whisper
into my waiting heart.
When my poems are badly written
I flog myself for having offended
the worn, upholstered repository
of beauty, for I have heard amiss,
dishonored my oracle
by inattention.
Or maybe flaccid stanzas
punish my lack of vigor
in challenging my wife’s mutterings
about throwing her out.
I shall defend
my sweet muse
in this slow war
of attrition.
in rare, but daily form, matt rides again…
the hesitancy and valour balance out one another nicely. Nice analogy of loyalty and obedience that comes with the apprenticeship.
Very well done! Our muses take many forms. I love this one. Great poem!
Love man. very well written, great poem!
Deft writing that exudes a warm sense of humour
Each time I read one of your poems, I see a little movie in my head – I love the verbal and visual stimulation. Thanks.
My writings (not poetry) seem to arise from my car, which is rather difficult…