This morning, in the gray light
of early winter, I was promised
a poem. 'It's waiting for you, '
she said softly. 'Look for it
in familiar places near home.
Not that distant home of your origins,
but the one close by, that has served
you so well, in these years if endeavor. And-'
And she had departed, in the middle of
a thought. It's almost a routine by now:
she is summoned by another poet, perhaps
like myself, perhaps not. I don't know -
How many poets does she attend? How does
she determine her visitations? Does she
check names - This is useless and unworthy.
I'm acting like a cast-off lover, a jealous
one, a hurt one... I will soon fulfill
this morning's promise: the poem, already
half written, lies face-down on the table.
What else is there to consider. Oh, yes,
it is the lingering scent of her presence.
this poem of yours fits nicely with the theme of the next Anthology: ''Ode to the Arts''.. what do you think? ;)
Yes, I think so too. I wrote it as a fragment of thought, unfinished and rough, not a clearly thought out esthetic position but rather an immediate reaction on the poet's part to the muse's unreliability.
If I had your problems… - as my former boss used to say. Do you like your muse? Do you miss it? Ann Akhmatova said she would wish to enemy the fate of a poet. May be her muse hurt her. She said it was like a fever. It’s described in her poem: “When at night I wait her coming”.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
EXCELSIOR! ;) And.. what about an introduction, too? :)