could should begin by admitting I have started and thrown away this post three times before this writing. Each time, I have felt compelled to move what I did write somewhere else entirely. No matter how it started, it just never answered what I felt I needed to say. Writer’s block? After 1,800 words, hardly.
My muse is a strange character (go figure). Unlike John’s Dragon, she does not push, although she is mischievous. I think of her more like Pan, with the incessant flute I cannot escape.
Yesterday, I wrote about why writers write. I also posted a poem. I will always find poetry analysis interesting, the way I like to look at microbes beneath a microscope slide.
Mantra (my muse’s name) some days feels like a virus. Her flitting around inside my brain and heart makes me woozy. When I just sit down (before I fall down), I hear the music so very plainly. It translates into words by the time it gets from my brain to my fingers.
Congratulations! It’s a…poem?
I hear the song all the time. If the song is merely instrumental, the guttural symphony or cacophony, my fingers play out prose: some fiction, some not. When I can discern the tender singing voice (no, not that kind of voice), what appears on my page is poetry.
And now, for the rest of the story.
There seemed to be some confusion over last night’s Muse for Monday poem, entitled My Equal. Since Mantra has cancelled all public appearances (saving all of her mischievous energy for me…Oh, goody.), the safe bet has you cannot hear what she is singing. Let me translate:
A picture is worth…
John, whose Dragon tells him to uncolor between the lines, made this lovely photograph in monochrome, and I promptly stole it. Meh. I attributed it, relax. It becomes in monochrome something it was not in color…pure.
Surprise! The original is not a white rose. It was pink (which is not my favorite, in case you were considering sending me flowers). White, on the other hand, is my favorite. Picture sold.
It is only one; tight; with a trailing petal and crisp leaves. It is gently unfolding. It symbolizes the poem.
Far be it from me to tell you in advance what the itinerary is, but I did. Before you read it again, think about the question in the intro.
When you stop looking for love, it finds you…even when you question who is knocking.
You often do not know what is missing from your life until after it has been replaced.
A different perspective always broadens your horizons and opens your mind to possibility.
We are all adults. Sex.
Comfort and trust.
Inspiration and happiness.
When we have someone in our lives, they answer our needs and desires. They also create desires and needs which were not there before.
Partners make each other stronger. When one needs to lean, the other supports.
Ambition and dreams of the future.
The heart which loves opens to others.
Argument. Just because you are mates does not make you identical.
Calmer. When the world is rife with lunacy and turmoil, Mate makes it okay to cry, scream, wreck.
Just because you did not expect it, does not mean it is not precisely what you need in Mate: An Equal.
What makes a good poem? Was the analysis what you expected? Why or why not?
(c) Red Dwyer 2011
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