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.