Painful Visitations of the Muse

Sunday, 18 December 2011 23:11

Written by Don Standeford

They too saw the beauty
Tried not to judge, reported it
By dabbing a bit of orange here, a touch
Of brown here; they sacrificed
Their fair share for shares
As much as they could stomach.
Nausea; the ink erupts,
And the poet sickens
In his self-possession.
A blond bearded snapdragon
The yellow gleam of a child swinging
Thicket ruled by fern and ridge
A table where the earth meets.
A canyon echoes, as do swallows
Two lovers listen to one heartbeat.
But we observe and struggle
To halt the needle one shot
From pain; we know our capacity
For addiction. We fear
To join; we have no time.
We see a pen; we bleed it dry
We hope for love till we're told
"Love's too costly; press it press it,"
Like Curt Cobain, or perhaps Keats
Who canned up his feelings for a woman
To objectify an urn; each poet scrawls
For his share, "how long must I taste only the skin
Of the peach - write how the whole
Thing tasted? Frustrating,"
How Poe died unrequited,
More empowered by thirst
Than contentment. He wrote to correct
The "disease of living." Byron?
Now there's another matter
He apostrophized for his own death
At the grave of another.
Both knew the discomfort
Of living on the edge. It seems
To be a poet is to observe the gladness
In other people's lives, then report to them
How they appear to eyes

In pain.

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