When Erato Goes Slumming: Original Poetry

I found this image on a page accompanying notes for a creative writing course at the City University of Hong Kong where it was clearly labeled as a picture of the muse of romantic poetry, Erato. Erato is usually displayed with a lyre and a crown of roses. If this is indeed one of the muses, I believe it is actually Urania, the muse of astronomy, whose attributes include a staff pointed at a celestial globe.

Whoever it may be, the muse does not often come to visit--she seems to have gotten a better travel agent. And perhaps she is not invited as much as she should be; in spite of my great love for the poetry of others, I have enough creative outlets that I do not often feel the need to write my own. When I do write, however, it is either intensely personal or comic. I find I cannot show the serious poetry until some years have passed; when recent, the words make me feel naked. The following cycle was written in the late 1980s.

CONFLAGRATION

Spark

I glimpsed a gentle spirit, rarely met,
Though seen for years each night in waking dreams
When sleep is slow, and Love collects the debt
Of love ungiv'n, which fest'ring, yearning, screams.

I dreamt about the glimpse I briefly stole.
I hope to find the glimpse I saw was true--
The goodly land within your gentle soul
Is peaceable, and Love is within you.

Flicker

I wonder, if I now take up the pen
And write a verse, or even two or three
And send them to you, trying for your love--
I wonder now, what would your answer be?

And if again, I took the pen in hand
And told you all I dreamt, and hoped and felt,
Would you then smiling, quickly nod your head
And understanding, let your cold glance melt?

Still, I have said it all too many times
To others who seemed destined to agree.
And after all, I yet am still alone
So I will write these words--but who will see?

Fire

I saw the look of hunger on your face.
I knew the self-same look appeared on mine.
The animal, the heart of all our race
Leapt to the surface, on the prowl to dine.

Embers

At last, within my heart the storm has calmed--
The thought of you no longer makes me weak.
And yet, no less than then I love you now
And find, in ways unthought, all that I seek.

The fire of lust no longer burns unchecked;
A better fire has quenched the wilder flame.
A chastened, purer love now burns within--
A softer glow illuminates your name.

Ashes

The Past has magic of its own
With pow'rful, potent spells
And those whose present joy has flown
May hide within its Hells.

Thalia, muse of comedy, comes to visit a little more often. Her jollier inspirations don't require the same time in the cellar as those of her sister. The following celebratory ballad was written in May, 2000. Following it is a very dear friend's rebuttal. Agree with whom you will--it is our hope these little baubles give you the same pleasure they gave us.

Drinking Song

When I was a young man and still a bit thin,
I took my first sip of the nectar called Gin.
Some find it distasteful and some think it sin
But I'll ever be singing the praises of Gin.

The juniper berry, so lovely and green,
Has a taste quite refreshing--so biting and clean.
It's a jovial drink that makes everyone kin--
I'll ever be praising the glories of Gin.

Oh, Vodka is nice, and Whiskey is wetter,
But Gin in the bottle or glass is much better--
Martini or tonic or "neat" as a pin.
I'll go to my grave nicely pickled in Gin.

A Drinker's Lament

When I was a youth, in that long-ago day,
The pleasures of alcohol first came my way.
I tossed back neat Whiskey, drank Vodka on ice,
But that poison called Gin I could not swallow twice.

The juniper fruit may be lovely and green,
But its essence, distilled, is profoundly obscene.
It's a bad-tempered drink that will make you quite ill.
I'll forever be damning the taste of that swill.

Gin's crystal-clear beauty is sly and perverse.
Its turpentine flavor just couldn't be worse.
Martini or tonic or "neat" as a pin,
There's no way to hide the bizarre taste of Gin.

If I e'er have to choose 'twixt malaria and Gin,
The skeeter-bred illness is going to win.

--Orgelbear