The Innisfree Poetry Journal
www.innisfreepoetry.org
by Trina Carter
NOT MY MUSE
You are not my muse, I'm afraid; She is always feminine, and you, My friend, are a brute. Young, thoughtless, stubble-jawed, Already running to fat, And to top it all off, you cut your hair So short it hugs your skull like bristles On a brush used to scrub vegetables⎯ Hardly the image a muse needs to cultivate Or a poet needs to write.
You create havoc with your cold Bludgeoning logic when what is needed Is peaceful inspiration, warm supportive Love, soft caressing encouragement Such as women give their first borns, Not this tumult of lusting after fame Or reeling from blow after blow To pride and ego, not this squashing Of what hasn't even been written As wrong, bad, or just plain inferior Because, let's face it, a man Didn't write it. Bah, humbug! Begone, ugly misshapen imposter!
You are not my muse, I'm certain; She has the power to move me, while you, My friend, are a mute. Wise, thoughtful, silken skinned, Still on the thin side, And on top of everything, she wears her hair Up like a lawyer or librarian, but way More hip and sophisticated as hell⎯ Just the ticket for a muse in need of a look Or a poet in need of a goad.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication
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