a tanka sequence for the author of Ecclesiastes
I'm upstairs writing
my dog downstairs sleeping
silence
separates the worlds
between us
finally
I scratch an all-day itch
into a few words . . .
back-breaking wet snow
continues piling up
cliches in my poem
audible but muted...
a new round
of midnight peace talks
between the Muse and me
left behind
by Calliope, the thief
of my heart and mind:
winter moonlight
on a scribbled line
the Muse asks,
Does a grain of poetry
suffice
to season our day?
sand slipping through my fingers
another day
starts with cliched imagery
the Muse is gone
but her eyes that stared at me
remain in my glass of wine
wishing
I could bottle these feelings
for Calliope . . .
a few more words nibble
the edges of my night
this starless night
the Muse at loggerheads
with my shadow...
at daybreak, the first line
rage against the day
my muse listens
to the hum and strike
of my words...
that same old look
on her Tudor court face
these clichéd words
hauled out of their mansion
herded onto buses
crammed into the camp
it's a dream, and yet...
first spring day...
distant sirens sharpen
the silence
I share with my old dog
and Calliope
book launch over
the Muse holding a scythe
walks me home...
this dream I have
on the first night of spring
I'm pregnant
with the 13th tanka ...
in twilight
my muse's ghost up the road
and around the bend
The tanka sequence above is my second one about the "troubling relationship" between a poet and his muse. The first one was published in Haiku Canada Review, 7:1, February 2013
ReplyDeleteThe NeverEnding Story between Calliope and Me
for Michael Ende
first light touching
the empty side of my bed . . .
on my headstone
A poet's life is lived
in the shadow of the Muse
my neighbor's cat
chasing a big mouse
across the room
I wait for bread crumbs
from the Muse's table
this humid day
the Muse dressed in a burqa
comes toward me
the sounds in my head
roar and fight like monsters
at high noon
my critic and the Muse
man-womaning...
I turn to Orlando,
the book my ex loves most
this summer night
my Muse's sexual rage
thundering
through many pages...
I write about loneliness
my ex and Muse
brimming over with love
for each other...
awake, autumn sunlight
on my coffee-stained desk
the Muse comes
as a mournful solace
despite passing
of the final deadline
I write rage against the light
nothing new
stuttering off the tongue
of my old Muse . . .
I look out the window
at leaves swirling in midair
my dying Muse
her whole life runs through my mind...
on the way home
I see nothing but
snowflakes and shadows
"A room of my own" is a potent account of a poet's struggle for inspiration and originality. I particularly like the 2nd and 5th tankas.
ReplyDeleteGlad you like my tanka. Thanks for your encouraging comment.
ReplyDeleteChen-ou