Tag Archives: muse

Tasting Karma

23 May

Irony

I like to lick
candied anise in
it’s bitter darkness.
To suck the sweet sharp
rock of it smooth
down
to the candy core,
letting a lump linger,
and then,
loll
to click the backs
of my bottom teeth
in half sweet – half sickening repose.

In every rasp of
my tongue,
the paradoxical pleasure
I get
from the dissolving
of your parodied intimacies
recalls
my lemon lavender
Self
you once devoured
in thoughtless instants,
like a complementary mint
pulled from an old jacket pocket
in soon forgotten surprise.

I like to savor
the painful justice
in my sugar sanded maw,
to bathe
the high roof
of my mouth
in echoing arias
from my stinging tongue,
lying behind
a smile
you once wore,
a sardonic lipped curl
watching your heart
hit the floor.

Under the Breath

20 May

Poetry was my first written medium of artistic expression and my first muse, a teacher in elementary school. Her love of words became my love of words and I learned to escape into them. As a child, my subjects were innocent and simple, my lines rhythmic and rhymed. As a teenager words exploded out of me. Poem after poem, most quite terrible. Melodramatic angst filled lines with little in the way of figurative language or craft filled my journals, not so much art. One element remained constant though.Poetic language would only come with a muse, someone to spark a flame that smoldered the incense of my soul.

Poems are arriving again but I find muses elusive and transitory. I feel slightly naughty in my literary infidelity. A selfish gleaning fixation creates sensory image and once created, I live in it for days, lost in a word world of sound and sense. My work is better now after years of teaching and study, but I also realize that with every one I write, image will become more defined, a slow focusing gaze that will become more rich and crisp with each line turned.

But what is needed above all is…a muse. Energy. And I’ll confess,  male is best. Men have obsessed over and then had their way with the muse for centuries. So I don’t feel guilty at all rolling in my thoughts, stretching the fabric of possibility until the line between reality and fantasy merge into one. Manipulate my own emotions? dreams? words?

Dangerous?

Maybe…

Regret it?

Not one bit.

When Beloved speaks her love language. . . le belle italiano sussurra la musa .

A simple phrase rises like scented smoke, and then, a fire alights.

sotto voce. . .

sotto voce,
a rosined note
drawn low
across the hollow
of my backbone…
Rising
rung by boned rung
to curl into
the shell and lobe,
whispering
more…
more…
there is always more.

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