The Image of My Muse’s Rousing

March 17, 2018

I write until trying fails, each attempt begins to blur,

these un-built words come tumbling down.

My intuition has made another curse

as letters then return like rotted wood to ground.

Those fundamental moods of measure, absent in a cloud

always insist upon that old, iambic curse;

that cheap disagreement of all intemperate crowds.

Standing out from language, subtle suicide in verse.

I’ll make words like climbing fire, or as butterflies ascend.

Only in dead calm, I feel this truth within in my bones,

such writ should penetrate the essence, defend

life’s redacted thoughts that only I have known.

I alone correct the flaw with no ciphered meaning shown.

Instead, imbalance balanced, as if all of thought were May,

in one image or a word, of all these infinite knowns—

language is the only image of my muse’s rousing way.


Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload


June 30, 2019

June 29, 2019

June 27, 2019

June 26, 2019

Please reload