This is how poems are made-

It starts as a buzz
A chest-full of bees
The jaw tightens, and also, the neck
Teeth meet, top and bottom
With a tap-tap
And a slow grind
Eyes narrow and a string is pulled
As brows are knit in trying
To conjure an image
Born of the body
With its percolating blood and thought-swirl

These are the moments I ache to sing
Yet escaped passion would echo back
Not as an opera
But a scream
So I suck in air through an open face
And I feel ribs crack wide
Upon exhale, the throat expands in a yawn
I’m a snake, unhinged
As my brain cools off

We’re working here, my muse and I
And it must look odd
To the cat and the dog
Who stare at me
And my pink pen
And odd-timed breath
And perpetual scritching

*January dwindles, but Write Alm prompts are still available! Respond as inspired! Write, draw, take photos! Share! Or don’t! It’s just about creative practice!

15 Replies to “Muse”

  1. As I read through the lines, I find my body going through the motions of your words. At the end of the 2nd paragraph, I shiver, like with a chill running down my spine. Writing a poem is a lot like birthing a baby.

    1. It really is like birthing. I almost said “how a poem is born” at the top. Sometimes it’s just a fabulous labor, with a relief at the end.

        1. Grief poems especially feel like labor to me, as did that one I wrote the other night, about the nature in KS, TX, MO, and CO. I just bawled as I wrote that one. It’s amazing what expression does to us.

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