Close, close and closer still,
There’s nothing here without my pill
The absence of the muse’s thrill,
A whispered sigh that fades until
The page lies blank, revealing nil.
Far, far and farther gone,
Conjure the voice for there is none
Can take the place of such a Sun
Despite the deeds all come undone
The wind blows cold, and on anon.
Esme's Cloud 
Lately, I’ve been feeling this way 😦
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The flow of the words will return. It they who are at the heart of your writing, not the muse, for all of the above lines. A match can strike as many times as it wants, with no fuel, no tinder, there is no blazing fire. And consider this; your online prose may well be the catalyst for someone else out there, someone to whom you shall be a muse.
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Such inspiring words! Again and again, a BIG thanks to you sonmicloud 🙂
You are right. These words – they have no single mission. They will always do the unexpected, cause unimaginable possibilities.
And that stubborn feeling of nil-ness, no matter the frequency of visitations, will always pass.
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You are most welcome Jan, I’m really pleased my words reached you. Inspiration is so pendulum-like in nature, and can suddenly appear from the most unexpected directions. Like from a wandering cloud for instance… 😀 sonmicloud.
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I think it’s brilliant how you often find a way of slipping a pun into your work, and yet which doesn’t detract at all from what precedes it, rather just adding another layer of potential appreciation. It also signifies the pleasure you take in words, treating them as malleable, and holding their own little secrets – for those acute enough to see them.
This piece makes me feel grateful for not feeling much of a creative urge in my life, as I know that for many it’s like a need that must be sated – almost like a biological/pathological compulsion? I had that with what I suppose I must call my ‘spiritual search’, and it was with me for close to 30 years.
I’ve always been drawn to creative types though, finding them hugely more interesting than intellectuals of an academic rather than artistic bent, or even just witty people, who can be fun, but there’s perhaps no depth. We’re all multi-layered, so one shouldn’t generalise too much, but yes, creative types are a definite draw for me.
Creative people have a certain depth to them, it seems, less tied to past conditioning and open to revelation; they always interest me regardless of their intellect or wit. You have all three, Esme, and so much more besides from what I read here; so I would most definitely be very drawn to you in real life, so to speak.
Does it feel like the sun’s come out when the muse is with you?
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Thank you so much for the time taken over this piece Hariod, which has sat in a dusty corner for so long, you have blown the cobwebs away and shined it up real nice for me to say the least – beams.
And yes, being a creator is both a bane and a blessing; when your muse is with you, in whatever form she takes, the sun does shine, in fact it’s blinding. It feels like a fast shot of the sweetest drug, one matched only by a review that shines as bright with praise for hitting the/amark. But when you are without her, be you writer, painter, lyricist, sculptor. . . you walk in mud and tar, fearful she’ll never come back and set alight that tinder of yours ever again. It’s a wonderful way of purging I find. nods and smiles.
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“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.
This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose . . .
. . . Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place.
And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds, wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.
And if out of this turning within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke
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