-- Death of the Muse --

by John Herlihy

The muse, beloved muse, forever at my side,

Sweet murmurs she did freely to me confide.

Her honeyed breath heard only as a whisper,

Without her, I set forth my poems as a lisper.

I loved her dearly, without her I would be lost,

Forgetting her true value, never reckoning cost.

When I first heard the muse, I was full of strife,

I wanted her poetic spirit to resolve questions of life.

Show me the way to creating feelings of ecstasy,

To explore unknown truths, delve into life’s mystery.

As in music, the musician doesn’t just play the notes,

To arouse passion in the poet what ecstasy denotes.

The day then comes when the muse must die,

End of summer sheds a tear, winter knows why.

The final poem dictated, the final word written,

The final sentiment expressed, the poet smitten.

Never imagined how she would look at the end,

This ethereal being, my inspiration, my sole friend.

Hopeless to imagine such a death, the composition,

The Muse lying on the floor in an awkward position.

Never before have I ever felt such feelings of woe,

The loss of all the countless blessings she did bestow.

Who now to comfort me, the sad poet, helpless child,

The waif, abandoned and forlorn, with feelings wild.

We imagine her fate, but in truth the muse never dies,

A true spirit of imagination never confined by a size.

Lying there on the ground, an angel with broken wings,

Thin lips forever closed on a mouth that never again sings.

The eyes, now closed as well, that reflected the sky blue,

A gentle breeze brushes her eyelids with drops of dew.

Passersby with rough faces stand around her feeling awe,

At the sight of the muse, overwhelmed by what they saw.

They don’t understand the tragedy they are witnessing,

Just staring at the dead muse, snow white, as a blessing.

Over ages, this visionary spirit has gifted poets her vision,

The muse makes her offering, the poet makes his decision.

Life in the pale face still, left behind by the departing soul,

The hand, now a broken wing, that once my heart stole.

The angelic muse, blithe spirit, inducing smiles and cries,

Who often visited the poet in order to unveil his eyes.

Verses, stanzas now come to me that she once perfected,

The body now taken its leave while the soul is resurrected.

We think we live in our bodies, forgetting there is a soul,

The body lives for a brief time, the spirit from heaven stole.

The patient poet relies on the hushed whispers of the muse,

Treasured verses written on a page with no need for excuse.

The body gives up its ghost and then returns to the earth,

The soul of the muse lives forever, in every poem’s birth.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Saturday 31 August 2024