By Paul E. Schindler, Jr.
Among the concepts left us
By the Greeks of yore,
Was that of a muse who affects us
When creating is our chore.
I always found it silly,
Whenever I heard or read
Authors discredit ability
And praise a muse instead.
Why must they personify
Their own great inspiration?
Why must they just justify
Their art with explanation?
To my eye it was quite silly,
Until she came, willy nilly.
For years I had not heard her sing;
Now on me, her load she springs.
Yes my muse is a lass.
Thus it has come to pass,
I operate beneath her sway
because she’s with me every day
Sometimes a gentle lass is she,
Like a cat upon my knee.
Other times, with no warning,
She wakens me in early morning.
I’d prefer to gently snore;
She wakes me up at half past four.
She’s insistent, will not quit.
It feels like being hit and hit.
“You must get up and write this down,”
she says although there is no sound.
And then for her A.M. encore,
She hits me with a 2 x 4.
“Please let me sleep,” my tired plea,
But she’s undaunted I can see.
And so I say goodbye to bed,
and go and hit the keys instead.
I ask her if we can just talk;
She says “remember JS Bach.
Although his story seems quite odd,
You know he said his muse was God.
‘I don’t create my tunes you see
I transcribe God’s symphony.’”
“Take a night off,” is my plea.
“I’m sorry, no,” she says to me.
“These words will not write themselves,
They need your help to sit on shelves.”
Normally not seen or heard,
Tonight she gets the final word.
“You keep telling people now
I’m a bully, true and how.
Perhaps this is their chance to see
Who I am and what I be:
A spur to creativity.
Angel, devil, scary ghost;
Yet it’s clear I am foremost,
She will not let me alone,
until I write her blog or poem.
Peace and sleep I cannot find,
Until I get her off my mind.
If it were just up to me,
I’d walk away and let her be.
But I can’t let entreaties pass,
Because I know she’ll kick my ass.