THE MUSE ARRIVES

By John Herlihy

My lantern dimmed, in the silence my mind awakens;

No scratch yet on paper of thoughts my mind hastens.

I do wait patiently, my imagination attuned to hope;

I cling to my source of inspiration as to the Divine Rope.

I can but wait for the moment when my Muse arrives,

To lift a veil on secrets of the world and make me wise.

When the Muse finally does arrive, I listen and hear;

That I may not understand her becomes my sole fear.

Like a misty rain, she descends quietly into my orb;

Echoes of her words into my mind I do fully absorb.

From wherever she comes I know not how and why;

The silence of the night is finally broken by her sigh.

I rush to take in hand my fountain pen and ink;

Lift the flaps of my ears with a nod and a wink.

I make a mental note to write all that she intones;

What would I write alone but moans and groans.

Often my lone scribblings make very little sense;

Their value hardly worth any more than six pence.

The Muse looked on me with benevolent grace;

Huge dark eyes gaze beyond her ageless face.

All thoughts of potatoes and pasta readily fled,

Left behind but an empty sheet of paper instead.

There are those of us who listen who never hear;

A thought of this happening to me brings a tear.

In sonorous rhythm, her voice adopts a grand tone,

To flow on with the ease of a crystal-clear river, alone.

“Draft for me a poem,” she exhorts, her voice sublime;

“Your sacred highness,” I utter, in a voice meekly mine.

Thinking to myself, I have no words to say, only babble;

I am accustomed merely to address masses of rabble.

I bow my head to let silence speak for me instead,

With no desire to let her know my feelings of dread.

Will she only utter scientific facts most empirical,

Or will she bestow upon me a poem most lyrical?

Poems, miracles of words, only a muse may propose,

And not the pathetic ramblings lonely poets compose.

When I gaze into her eyes, her voice invades my heart,

Like a mad, conquering warrior ready to pull me apart.

An empty vessel, totally lost for words, I am now filled,

With the imagery and symbols I never could have willed.

The inspired words flowed like honey from her sweet lips,

I drank the soul of this dream-weaver with tender sips.

Was she a witch, haunted ghost, spellbinder of the mind,

Or mystic enchantress weaving mystery of another kind?

She knows of her power, at the mercy of her every whim,

I could only keep silent with a face determined and grim.

With outpourings of emotive insight, she began to speak;

My heart pounded, hand quivered, my pen began to weep.