Day 27 prompt: write a poem in the form of a review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. I reviewed my creativity muse.
The Myth of the Muse
Mousa, child of Zeus,
sky fairy serving maybes
on Ouija boards of art.
Writing, creative inspiration,
poetry. It’s all work.
“Shoveling shit from
a sitting (or standing) position.”
My muse is not out there,
she’s in here (head, heart, soul,
big toe). This is not
Big Magic. It’s work. A job.
Try. Fail. Repeat. Erasing
is creative writing, drawing,
or painting (crafting). We’re all phonies,
and none of us are. Fear makes waits.
New ideas are borrowed reality.
Read, think, write, and a magic muse
will find life. Punch production clocks,
then make words, pictures, pieces.
I must self-muse: love it or leave it.
Buy the damn lottery ticket.
Go for the interview. Sign up.
“God helps those….” Who makes them?
Look both ways for inspiration
but look within for courage to work.
Mind the gaps for your impostor’s syndrome.
Note: quotes are Stephen King (shoveling…), and Dad (God helps…).
Elizabeth Gilbert wrote Big Magic.
March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb — not this year. It’s reversed. It started pleasant enough, but now I am cold (I think I have one, or allergies due to pollen all over), it is cold and windy outside. When I finish all my reading and writing for today, I think I’ll take a sick day. Do retired folks get those, especially on Sundays? I feel the need to heal.
I posted a few of the poems I wrote during March. In addition to the 31 for each day, I wrote about 10 others simply because one does not refuse when one’s muse presents a poem. I also managed to write a few essays, but this month my poetry muse has been more active.
Poem titles for March included:
- March (posted)
- Rock and Roll Will Never Die
- Now What I Was
- A Touch of Cold (maybe it was cold in early March)
- The Fire Down Below (posted)
- At the Beginning of the Day
- There Was a Time
- Why We Can’t Be Friends (I can’t love/like everyone)
- Late Bloomer (that would be me)
- I Might Be
- Me Too
- Stinks (the smell, not the poem)
- Hear Ye Me and Thee
- The Dance (what we all want to do)
- Bacon (the meat)
- The Irish in Me (Must have been the 17th)
- Too Much (of what?)
- Losing It (crazy)
- The Priest (a man I knew who died in prison)
- Tank Hill
- It’s Just Me
- Handwriting from the Past
- Confusing Transitions
- Starting Short
- Mari Zone II
- Men Kill
- Broken Sadness
- Rouquin (French word)
- Self Portrait as Poe
Beginning tomorrow (1 April 2019), I’ll continue to write at least one poem each day, but instead of writing to my muse’s ideas, I will write to whatever the National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) challenge prompts suggest. My source will be that website where each day’s assignments are posted around midnight. I’ll write and post the poem before giving up the day to Mister Sandman.
I expect to travel during the final days of the month, so I will be writing on the road (again—now I have Willie whining in my good ear). The world is rich with characters and topics, so I anticipate no lack of subjects (think small towns in west Texas).
Unlike my others, I feel challenged (obliged) to post these. That’s what NaPo is all about. Don’t say no pressure. Yes there is, and you know it.
As for prose, who knows?
Look both ways for opportunity and danger.
An inspiration need not be the creative juggernaut of the day.
Mind well gaps within the gaps.