Yes, a poem. But with a caveat. I know I'm not Lord Byron...otherwise I'd be famous already. But I still enjoy a thought-provoking poem as much as the next literature-phile. So, in spite of the groans my meter elicits, I've penned a few lines on this mysterious subject.
Muse: what exactly is it? The concept has eluded me over my Fall semester, and I keep returning to it. At its most simplistic, muse is a gift from God that allows mere men a glimpse into the eternal. The eternal is there (in some form) at the creation of the painting, the composition, the blueprint, the poem; I think those that are doing the creating catch the brightest glimpse, but those who observe, listen, or read, can also sense it. It's a transfiguration (if I may use that term without offending anyone) of the ordinary, ugly, or hopeless into something greater than itself: a translucent medium through which one can almost see something beyond mortality and transience.
On Muse
Wingéd inspiration,
flighty, fickle, fabled,
carrying the breath of
art-love, beauty, madness.
Living on in famine,
war, destruction, ever
Phoenix, myth, a hope-dove,
rising from the ashes.
The world as my muse
2 comments:
Yeah!!!! The muse is back from her long sojourn! Love your poem.
I agree--it's a glimpse into eternity ... not into the Ideal. I've always thought of a muse being the thing/person/idea that inspires the glimpse, rather than the glimpse itself, but perhaps the two are intertwined as you suggest. I like the idea of the muse extending beyond its devotee. After all, an observer can see from a painting that "the artist's muse was strong."
Clever kennings. Way to mix Greek and Anglo-Saxon.
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