Saturday, April 18, 2015

NaPoWriMo #18

Shew, day eighteen!

Is anyone else getting tired yet?

Today I decided to go with my own Day #18 prompt over at Pink.Girl.Ink.

It went something like this:  Personifying the Muse:  Give your muse a personality, an identity.  Is she an old, wise woman?  A fairy that sprinkles creative dust?  Describe who your muse is to you, make him/her interesting!

I really couldn't deny my muse her moment in the spotlight!

Here is my poem constructed in her honor:


My Muse

She is a sky priest
Who practices palm magic
And coughs stars.
She burns old books
And creates letterhead
From their smoky ash
With crooked, wrinkled fingers.
She is the buoyant pirouette
In a floorless room,
Transforms herself into
 A net when I’m most broken,
Just to catch the
Discarded sonnets of
My ripped-apart pages.
She’s a hanging lamp
In the dark-graveled distance
Of a long walk home,
Dangling like a fairy.
Loyal as a housemaid,
She dances me into the
Moonlight when I am lonesome,
Two witches howling
Toward the empty windowsills
When no letters arrive
And the telephone dials
Its last, wrong jingle.
She’s as hopeful as
A silent prayer, kissing
Each of my bruised knees.
The un-tongued confidant
Who wills me to speak
Of my tragedies.
She’s a long door,
To a buried room full
Of my self-treasures.
And I’m always scared
To summon her, but
Usually she’s already there,
Sitting in my favorite chair,
Smoke rings and Marlboros,
Mary Janes and school books,
Ever the shape-shifter
In an image from my past,
Willing me, with the
Secret language of her eyes,
To write.  Telling me
To sit atop her knee,
Be covered with the warm
Shaw that’s been waiting.
She’s also a connoisseur
Of the best green tea,
Mother God of coffee.
She’s made of all
That sort of stuff,
My wrinkly mother of
Other worlds, inside worlds,
And words upon words
That write by thick candlelight:
Heart-healer, brain-serum,
Tricky dictionary sprite.

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