“The Muses Are At It Again” by Marissa Bergen

All my nine muses sat so sweet
A pretty row there at my feet
And to those dear girls I did say
“What should we write about today?”

Calliope said “To please aesthetics
Let’s make this no less than epic”
To which Clio said “Oh please
Those no one has the time to read
Though you would find me most euphoric
If we chose a theme historic”

Erato yawned said “Boring, boring
Who’s up for a little whoring
We know sex sells, so why bicker
I’ve a wetness in my knickers”

“All you think about is sex!
Let’s consult a religious text
I feel a need for veneration
Do your best to leave out Satan
For your mortal soul I’ll pray”
So Polyhymnia had her say

Then Melpomene said “Enough girls
With all the sadness in the world
Let’s write one so they’ll end up crying
I’m thinking say, some puppies dying”

“How could we write ’bout such things
I’d so much rather dance and sing”
“Oh Terpischore let’s make it plain
You dance just like Seinfeld’s Elaine

Oh doesn’t everybody see
We’ll likely go with comedy”
Said Thalia sporting a smug grin
Urania whined “You always win”

Thalia said “Your whining pains us
How ’bout some jokes about Uranus!”
“And some music?” Euterpe crooned
And Clio said “You’re out of tune!”

Then such a sight, I live and breath
As Euterpe pulled at Clio’s weave
The claws were out most horrifying
Fake nails, underwear went flying

Thalia made a ninja move
Then punched Erato in the boob
So from the room I made a sprint
As someone screamed “Oh no you didn’t!”

But don’t you know this awful fighting
Happens often when I’m writing
Every time there is a doubt
Of what I want to write about

 

“The Muses Are At It Again” by Marissa Bergen. Marissa shares her very witty and very humorous poetry at Glorious Results Of A Misspent Youth. She’s one of my favorite WordPress poets; I bet she will become one of your favorites too. Stop by to say hi (she’s very friendly, especially for a Rock And Roll Supermom!) and to read through some of her past works.

Greek Muses
Greek Muses

A brief summary of The Muses:

Calliope – epic poetry
Clio- history
Erato – eroticism
Euterpe – music
Polyhymnia – religion, hymns
Melpomene – tragedy
Terpischore- dancing and singing
Thalia -comedy
Urania – astrology and astronomy

 

 

“30 Beliefs and Techniques for Prose and Life” by Jack Kerouac

  1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
  2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
  3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
  4. Be in love with yr life
  5. Something that you feel will find its own form
  6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
  7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
  8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
  9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
  10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
  11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
  12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
  13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
  14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
  15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
  16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
  17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
  18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
  19. Accept loss forever
  20. Believe in the holy contour of life
  21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
  22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
  23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
  24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
  25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
  26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
  27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
  28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
  29. You’re a Genius all the time
  30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

~ Jack Kerouac

Via BrainPickings.org

  
Photo via: Changing Footsteps 

“I Said to Poetry” by Alice Walker

I said to Poetry: “I’m finished
with you.”
Having to almost die
before some weird light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
“No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
I’m out for good times –
at the very least,
some painless convention.”

Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn’t sad or anything,
only restless.

Poetry said: “You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with?* You remember
that, if ever so slightly?”
I said: “I didn’t hear that.
Besides, it’s five o’clock in the a.m.
I’m not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you.”

Poetry said: “But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one – and how suprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with

Think of that!”

“I’ll join the church!” I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
“I’ll learn how to pray again!”

“Let me ask you,” said Poetry.
“When you pray, what do you think
you’ll see?”

Poetry had me.

“There’s no paper
in this room,” I said.
“And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise.”

“Bullshit,” said Poetry.
“Bullshit,” said I.

Alice Walker

“I read poems. I write. That is my destiny… (Hooks)

“I read poems. I write. That is my destiny. Standing on the edge of the cliff about to fall into the abyss, I remember who I am. I am a young poet, a writer. I am here to make words. I have the power to pull myself back from death—to keep myself alive.”

Bell Hooks, Bone Black: Memories of Girlhood

“The Poems I Have Not Written” by John Brehm

I’m so wildly unprolific, the poems
I have not written would reach
from here to the California coast
if you laid them end to end.

And if you stacked them up,
the poems I have not written
would sway like a silent
Tower of Babel, saying nothing

and everything in a thousand
different tongues. So moving, so
filled with and emptied of suffering,
so steeped in the music of a voice

speechless before the truth,
the poems I have not written
would break the hearts of every
woman who’s ever left me,

make them eye their husbands
with a sharp contempt and hate
themselves for turning their backs
on the very source of beauty.

The poems I have not written
would compel all other poets
to ask of God: “Why do you
let me live? I am worthless.

please strike me dead at once,
destroy my works and cleanse
the earth of all my ghastly
imperfections.” Trees would

bow their heads before the poems
I have not written. “Take me,”
they would say, “and turn me
into your pages so that I

might live forever as the ground
from which your words arise.”
The wind itself, about which
I might have written so eloquently,

praising its slick and intersecting
rivers of air, its stately calms
and furious interrogations,
its flutelike lingerings and passionate

reproofs, would divert its course
to sweep down and then pass over
the poems I have not written,
and the life I have not lived, the life

I’ve failed even to imagine,
which they so perfectly describe.

~John Brehm