The writer spoke in his most businesslike voice.
OO“I don’t have time to take poetry now. I’m too busy with prose. Look. I’m writing a book—a novel. Well, as a matter of fact, it’s only a story at this point, but it has the potential to be a novel. That’s even better, since it might be a novel without the potential to be a story. But I have to get to page sixty by tomorrow. I promised myself. I promised myself I’d take the time, and I’m taking the time. Please let me do it. If I don’t do it now, when will I ever do it? So go away with your poetry and leave me alone.”
The Muse departed, angrily jangling her lyre. She took her poetry with her.
OOThe writer turned to his book and his mouth turned to dust. All he could hear was the dissonant sound of the untuned lyre (for the Muse let her lyre get out of tune when she visited him).
OOHis mind turned to water, and what he wanted to write was as writ on it. Not a word would pass his lips or his fingertips.
OOHe called on the Muse. “Oh Muse, come back! Come back to me with your poetry! I’ll take it! With good grace this time, I mean. Whatever you bring, I’ll take, only come
back to me.”
OOShe didn’t hear, wasn’t even listening. There was no connection between her order of being and his. He was the designated vessel, he alone, but the switch was off or the power was down. There was no flash, no flush, no heightened moment in which he was suddenly raised to another level.
OODays later she burst in through the French doors, disheveled, her hair, the golden curls frizzed by the rain, hanging in damp ringlets about her face. She gave herself airs. She sashayed around the room, nose in the air, holding her lyre over her shoulder hung
on one finger.
OOShe threw him a wanton smile, laughed whorishly in his face.
OOThis done, and the writer duly humbled, she burst into song.
She sat on the corner of his desk as if on a piano and sang him a string of saloon songs.
In the cemetery the tall guy told us he had written a letter to his governor to suggest that he might want to go for a walk in the cemetery. It being a somewhat old and fine cemetery surrounded by highway, a bubbly crick, poison ivy, a cigar bar, and an old house that won’t let anybody in to see it’s basement. Something went on about how his father walked somewhere with the governor’s father. How he knew the governor’s wife likes to go for walks. How his children like to go for walks.
(go to story)
Since I don’t really have anything to tell you, let me mention some things that happened on Sunday, August 20, 2017. I was dropping off a bag of used clothes at The Thrifty Store where even rich people shop for twenty-five cent shirts. Slumming it is big now and everybody loves a bargain. The place was closed and management prefers folks to not drop off donations on Sunday but people do anyway. Which makes it a good day for poor folks to get something they can afford, namely, something free. (Go to Story)
I have read poetry, novels, books that have inspired me, and listened to music that makes my breathing uneven.I hae seen art so powerful that I had to put my hand on a wall to keep from being dizzy (page #2 of this magazine). There is, however, only one time I felt something that came from inside of me; an idea so fully formed I could not escape it. A vision that would not fade. (go to article)
Inspiration is the process of clearing ourselves and bringing in wisdom, guidance, divine revelation, healing energy, or the sacred breath from Spirit. Call it channeling one’s muse, if you like. It is the process of connecting with the divine, getting our human selves out of the way, and allowing Spirit to move through us. (go to article)
Our Poetry section includes some of our favorite poets, click on ther names to bring yourself to special inspiring poems:
Robert Graves -
To the Muse Goddess (visit)
Dante - ‘’Purgatorio’’,
Canto I, lines 7 to 12 (visit)
Peter Fortunato -
Four Poems (visit)
Mary Gilliland -The Language of Bees (visit)
Nancy Cuto - Madragana Wears Her New Name (visit)
The Atlantic, June 1961
The original significance of this word has long been blurred by dishonest or facetious usage. The Muse, or Mountain Mother, whom the preclassical Greeks worshiped on Parnassus and other sacred peaks, seems to have inspired the poet in much the same sense as the loa gods of Haiti now “ride” their devotees. And, although by Homer’s time her invocation had become a mere formality, subservice to the Muse has ever since been avowed by counterfeit poets in the service of politics, learning, or the church. True possession has occurred sporadically down the centuries as a phenomenon that can neither be provoked or foreseen. (go to entire article)
The nine Muses are the offspring of Zeus and Mnemosyne, the Goddess of Memory. Before the invasion of the Olympian gods, the Muses, goddesses or guardian nymphs of springs and groves, tutelary spirits, belonged to a preliterate, oral culture. The original three are the daughters of Mnemosyne, memory, although they were raised by a wetnurse or foster-mother, Eupheme. Even this biographical snippet must be a late revision, since Mnemosyne is said to be the mother of the Muses with Zeus, so is already a literary corruption, the first euphemism. Mnemosyne is a personification: Memory. (go to article)
the Second Attention
(Emphasizing the Recall)
I closed my eyes and immediately recalled the Elders advice.
“Nothing might temper the spirit of a nation as much as the challenge of dealing with impossible people in positions of power.
If you face the uncertainty with impunity, you will acquire the strength to withstand
even the incomprehensible.
And for this, peace will guide your way - then you shall know how to proceed”.
(go to the beginning of article)
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