I wanted a Muse poem of my own, so I wrote this yesterday morning.
I feel a little bad about the in-your-face tone of this poem. I hardly ever adopt that pose except when trying to psyche myself up to lift heavy weights ... or when dealing with other alpha-male drivers on Detroit's freeways.
My Muse Can Beat Up Your Muse
My muse can beat up yours – don't even try her.
She's armed with wit and sense and holy fire.
Unparalleled in her alacrity,
She will not sanction mediocrity.
Her frightening aesthetic probity
Eschews the common for the rarity.
At home with pen or brush, with harp or lyre,
Her beauty doth continually inspire.
Your muse, I'm sad to say, is often slow.
She's tardy to arrive, but quick to go.
Your muse plants only barren things and plain
Within the convolutions of your brain.
While my muse grants me victory again,
You cannot yet complete your first quatrain.
Your paper fallow, not a word will grow.
Your pen will never reap if she won't sow.
But let us pass from talking of her ways,
And turn again my worthy muse to praise.
In speed and grace she never fails to please,
Likewise in balancing asymmetries.
To discipline and form she holds the keys.
Yet wild she is, untamed as any breeze.
I will not fail to heed her piercing gaze,
Nor fail to thank God for her all my days.
© 2010, Paul Erlandson
