Speak to me, Poem

Speak to me, Poem. You
are intimate with the
Muse, and I not. What is
her story? Does she desire
to scratch my surface? Is she
tracking me, like I her? Or
does she roll over in the morning
and find satisfaction enough in
breeze, mountain, crevice?

I weary of my own rhyme and so pine
for her tongue since mine is tired.

Poem, talk to the Muse and
tell her I sit now in silence – my
pen aching to scratch her surface,
while I – well, I itch.

7 thoughts on “Speak to me, Poem

  1. love love love this. Says it perfectly.

  2. shoreacres says:

    William Stafford composed a poem that’s quite a match for the words you’ve offered here. It’s a rather different take on the experience that we all have, more or less often.

    When I Met My Muse ~ William Stafford

    I glanced at her and took my glasses
    off–they were still singing. They buzzed
    like a locust on the coffee table and then
    ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
    sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
    knew that nails up there took a new grip
    on whatever they touched. “I am your own
    way of looking at things,” she said. “When
    you allow me to live with you, every
    glance at the world around you will be
    a sort of salvation.” And I took her hand.

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