Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Wooing The Wayward Muse

She lay sprawled on the bed,
Papers strewn around-
Pen held poised;
Waiting for Inspiration to strike…

Her eyes wandered lazily,
Seeking her errant Muse;
Vacantly she gazed
Out the window,
The railway tracks mocked at her…

Words flirted shamelessly,
Like fickle lovers;
Now here, next nowhere-
They slipped her clutches;
As she gave chase…

Language laughed aloud in scorn,
As she scraped the-
Bottom of creativity;
For a stray morsel…

Thoughts were empty,
Emotions ran dry,
Life glided by-
Without ripples;
Nothing shook her placid stupor…

She closed her eyes-
In mute surrender;
And slipped into-
A wordless slumber…

3 comments:

Vivek said...

Interesting piece, especially this stanza:

Language laughed aloud in scorn,
As she scraped the-
Bottom of creativity;
For a stray morsel…

and

Words flirted shamelessly,
Like fickle lovers;

But even in these stanzas, some combinations challenge my ability to grasp their true import:

like "stray" morsel and shamelessly flirting lovers being "fickle".

As for "life glided by- without ripples", perhaps the errant muse, the inspiration is these ripples. Like order emerges from chaos, most poetry rises from internal commotion.

Bringabrahma said...

wots "internal commotion"?

:))))))))

abhilash warrier said...

Awesome. This is one of the few poems i have read about not being able to write when you actually have written it quite well.

God bless your muse(s).