“O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.” William Shakespeare
Even William Shakespeare, (1564 to 1616), had trouble with his muse, chiding it as being uncooperative or entirely absent. His sonnets are replete with his complaints about this. In Sonnet 100 he chides, "Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long." I guess I’m in good company here.
Recently I was inspired to write, “Love cast a net of silken weave upon a sea of Hope” … and then silence. I was left hanging, wondering what to do with this lovely introduction to a poem. All of my attempts to continue fell utterly flat. And so it was for a few days until, frustrated, I just gave up.
Suddenly a new sentence arrived, “And gathered without injury all there within its scope” … and then, again, nothing. I kept wondering where this poem was going and, again, I tried to remedy it on my own. Nope, my muse definitely wasn’t in the mood. I added that sentence, closed the page, and walked away.
Some poems feel as though they flow out of my pen all on their own, while many require a lot of work, but this one, for all of its initial promise, just sat there silently staring at me … until very, very late one night as I was all hunkered to sleep. My muse has the most obnoxious timing.
Even after this late night vigil with my pen the poem still wasn’t done. I could sense that there was more to be added. The next day as I sat with that poem it all came together and not in ways I half expected. With a few little tweaks it was done, at last! Here is that poem:
Love Cast A Net
They’d lived with strife for centuries
Once greed and lust took root.
Alas, there seemed no remedy
For all attempts fell moot.
Love cast a net of silken weave
Upon that sea of Hope
And gathered without injury
All there within its scope
Then lifted them so carefully.
To cradle in soft hands.
Love twinned this bounty perfectly
Regardless of their plans
Then gingerly all are released,
Now freely they could cope
As pairs and swim agreeably
Within that sea of Hope.
JaniceT
Even William Shakespeare, (1564 to 1616), had trouble with his muse, chiding it as being uncooperative or entirely absent. His sonnets are replete with his complaints about this. In Sonnet 100 he chides, "Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long." I guess I’m in good company here.
Recently I was inspired to write, “Love cast a net of silken weave upon a sea of Hope” … and then silence. I was left hanging, wondering what to do with this lovely introduction to a poem. All of my attempts to continue fell utterly flat. And so it was for a few days until, frustrated, I just gave up.
Suddenly a new sentence arrived, “And gathered without injury all there within its scope” … and then, again, nothing. I kept wondering where this poem was going and, again, I tried to remedy it on my own. Nope, my muse definitely wasn’t in the mood. I added that sentence, closed the page, and walked away.
Some poems feel as though they flow out of my pen all on their own, while many require a lot of work, but this one, for all of its initial promise, just sat there silently staring at me … until very, very late one night as I was all hunkered to sleep. My muse has the most obnoxious timing.
Even after this late night vigil with my pen the poem still wasn’t done. I could sense that there was more to be added. The next day as I sat with that poem it all came together and not in ways I half expected. With a few little tweaks it was done, at last! Here is that poem:
Love Cast A Net
They’d lived with strife for centuries
Once greed and lust took root.
Alas, there seemed no remedy
For all attempts fell moot.
Love cast a net of silken weave
Upon that sea of Hope
And gathered without injury
All there within its scope
Then lifted them so carefully.
To cradle in soft hands.
Love twinned this bounty perfectly
Regardless of their plans
Then gingerly all are released,
Now freely they could cope
As pairs and swim agreeably
Within that sea of Hope.
JaniceT
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