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“I would especially like to recourt the Muse of poetry who ran off with the mailman four years ago and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.” - John Updike, Imagination generator, one key at a time sweet bejesus, orphans of time, Poetry creates the myth - the prose writer draws its portrait. – Jean-Paul Sartre, The plight of the writer, Words, Writing
The Howling
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Scattered scraps of stories
Tinted tithes of tales,
Half-formed paper lives,
Fiction flights and flails.
Shreds of sweeping stanzas
Tears of patchy passion,
Torn and stapled sagas
Scripts sit blurred and ashen.
Loosely draped précis,
Themes almost addressed,
Hordes of pushy prose —
Ambiguous when pressed.
Sketched out personalities
Characters barely there,
Histories scantly dressed,
Demanding prose doth declare:
WritemeWritemeWriteme
Right me,
W R I T E M E!
They, frenzied, cry;
And sometimes . . .
I do.
r
Esme's Cloud 
Dear Esme,
Everything ok? … because it sounds like it’s: not.
Big hugs,
Me.
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That’s so very sweet of you Pen, but I’m fine, it’s just fiction about the frustrations of being a writer. Everything written upon the Cloud is channelled through the aether to me, some parts I recognise, others are from other people’s spheres and worlds. It’s only been in the past year or two my lovely Cloudsters have started worrying my darker pieces are esme, here and now, when if there really is any esme in there, it’s drawn from past experience. Esme has become too human perhaps? But she is not human, she is a creature, there are long ears and possibly a tail involved (no photos folks, it’s not that kind of party), and she is over 400 years old too. Just enjoy the words (or not!), it’s like Stephen King, he’s not got a freezer chest full of heads (fingers whole and crossed). There’s no cries for help here, but I honestly, massively appreciate you asking.
-Esme fineadoodledandy upon the Cloud honest guv. x
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Oh, good. Glad to hear it! 🙂
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Sometimes, it seems, we’re naught but slaves
Of texts by which we’re smitten;
Their plaints can make us feel like knaves
If we leave them unwritten.
A dozen worlds thrive bustlingly
In my capacious head;
Until I set their stories free
On paper to be read.
(And you lay claim to creaturehood
And possibly a tail?
By that — I’d say the odds are good —
There hangs a worthy tale!)
But let impatient muses rage,
And rule you nevermore;
Imprisoned prose should meet the page
When time’s ripe — not before.
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I’m the muse. Hahahahahahahaaha. Technically, everyone is a muse for someone else, but it’s extreemly rare to find your muse; a muse isn’t specifically a soul mate I should add (though if you find one and they are just that you’re incredibly lucky and must feed them all the biscuits they request and never lock them in a cage), a muse is tinder for the fires of a specific kind of creation that can only appear when said muse is invoked or invited round to the garden to look at massive daisies. Muses cannot divulge any secrets or extra info than that mentioned here or they get kicked out of the Muses Guild. beams
Fantastic piece Infidel! I so enjoy your poetry.
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Could truly feel the depth of this piece of art, absolutely beautiful ❤
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I’m honoured it touched you so much, and very much appreciate you telling me so. Thank you ❤
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I thoroughly enjoyed this piece, Esme! The frustration is very evident but when it’s all said and done, it’s the struggle that brings out the best eventually, I think.
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Thank you Susi! It’s akin to giving birth in some respects – in as much as it’s inevitable, something will out, and the process can be blood sweat and tears over time, or pop out joyfully in an afternoon. That’s the fun and trials of creation methinks beams, if a struggle, how fine it feels to have wrestled the bugger to the ground eh? Hahahahaha.
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You’re welcome, Esme! Yes, ALL of that! 🙂
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