She has been around a long time. I have been writing poetry for more than thirty years. Even before I knew of muses and inspiration, I had drawn green fairies which had no resemblance to Tinkerbell. Over the course of decades, her appearance has changed very little, although I have aged.
There are a few of you who have been around long enough to had seen the first introductory explanation of Mantra. It came after a few weeks of exposing M3 to the little imp but before she posed for some of her many newer portraits which have come to inhabit M3, like the one here at the top of the post and the one gracing the cover of her first book.
She is definitely a breed apart, even as fairies and muses go, insomuchas she goes walkabout to spread the verse and to sit for drawings. Both of these images and the one which will grace the interior of the new book of poetry, Mantra’s Book of Shadows, are a result of her taking up residence in someone else’s head for long enough to make hands draw her.
As I have been prepping for the book tour beginning next week, the new poetry book is on the schedule. In concert with some of the interviews which are very concerned with how I pack 48 hours into any given day, how Mantra operates is of interest.
Writers and authors tend to have characters in their heads, either playing out the scenes needing to be written or arguing the story line with the scribe. Mantra is a bit different from that.
Instead of the little firebrand speaking in a language I understand, she makes music and sings. I hear the music all the time. Having the M3 Soundtrack is one of my ways of testing the water to see if she is singing outside my head. (FYI, she is.) Some days, she is content doing covers, but the vast majority of it is music which is novel.
And then there are the days when I understand the words. Those are the days I write poetry. During lean times, it will be a once a week task. During a deluge, I may write four in a day. Yeah, it may not sound like much, but considering the average length of a poem is a bit over 500 words (with epic ones over 2,000), it can all be a bit much. The closest I have ever came to haiku was nine stanzas.
During the writing of MBS, there were days finishing a poem would leave me so exhausted I had no other option but to sleep. Literally, I put down the notebook, immediately lay down and fell directly into REM sleep. Occasionally, it was the only sleep I would get for days on end.
Only one poem from Mantra for a Muse did that to me. Those who have read the book immediately pick out it was Treasure… 900 words which sucked out the marrow.
This will be the last Muse for Monday from MBS. As with all poems from the lantern, it comes with an understated title, Youth. Depending on our place on the path, we either sympathize with the speaker or wish we never get to that place. If we are in between, we can see both ends of the spectrum.
I don’t remember being young.
Others speak of carefree laughter,
But my mind’s awash with something.
An acute punctuality,
Stark and lonely reality.
I’ve learned enough to want and yearn
For the selfish and wanton whims
Of the youth I can’t remember.
A heady sensuality,
Dreams nothing more than fantasy,
Even sitting in broad daylight,
In touch with youthful ecstasy.
No more adult complexity.
An alternate reality.
Where my body responds to touch,
Sight, sound and taste of touching skin.
The feel of youth rediscovered.
What part of youth is missed the most? In your refusal to grow old, what can you see you have forgotten? Does writing ever drain you physically?
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