Thank you for sharing your poem "Speaking to Imagination" with me the other day. More importantly for me is that I have met one of my readers. I'm truly honored.
Your poem is directed at your imagination. For some writers the imagination is one of the muses:
"Here again, Calliope (epic poetry) carries a writing tablet; Clio (history) carries a scroll and books; Euterpe (song and elegiac poetry) carries a flute, the aulos; Erato (lyric poetry) is often seen with a lyre and a crown of roses; Melpomene (tragedy) is often seen with a tragic mask;Polyhymnia (sacred poetry) is ...."from Wikipedia
This quite a group of powerful muses. If this group of muses is to whom you are speaking then heed my warning. Respect them ad nauseum. Telling them that you are the "...King." is tantamount to insurrection...or insult.
Love them. Stroke them. They give poets powerful words and ideas. I am in love with all of them despite their jealousies with each other over me. Juggling my attentions on them is done with great difficulty. I often start to write something and find I am hearing an argument over which muse is going to help me complete the project. Some learned people think I am just hearing voices in my head. It's an awful thing when I am in the library on the computer, listening to music on the internet, writing something and suddenly, I hear a bunch of women screaming in my headphones. Then, I launch into often loud conversation trying to calm a group of arguing muses. These "ladies" are giving me a bad reputation here. It's all very strange for a gay man to hear women in his ears arguing with each other. People don't believe I hear these things. After a few minutes they discover that they have embarrassed me. There are no apologies. There are clear thoughts filled with the words I need to complete something under the fingers typing on the computer. Now, they've gone quiet. They aren't speaking to me because I am writing about them. My dears, I am so sorry, but I have to get another writer to respect your voices...to respect my dear sweet ladies who often ramble through my head like a hundred St. Bernards in search of a lost skier. So even though you have gone silent because of my words to this potentially fine writer, I know I shall hear your singing once again. So, J.G., you did have my attention and I hope this note is an explanation of my viewpoint that surrounds your poem. Please write some more for me and I hope to see you again soon. Your devoted reader, Barry.
Your poem is directed at your imagination. For some writers the imagination is one of the muses:
"Here again, Calliope (epic poetry) carries a writing tablet; Clio (history) carries a scroll and books; Euterpe (song and elegiac poetry) carries a flute, the aulos; Erato (lyric poetry) is often seen with a lyre and a crown of roses; Melpomene (tragedy) is often seen with a tragic mask;Polyhymnia (sacred poetry) is ...."from Wikipedia
This quite a group of powerful muses. If this group of muses is to whom you are speaking then heed my warning. Respect them ad nauseum. Telling them that you are the "...King." is tantamount to insurrection...or insult.
Love them. Stroke them. They give poets powerful words and ideas. I am in love with all of them despite their jealousies with each other over me. Juggling my attentions on them is done with great difficulty. I often start to write something and find I am hearing an argument over which muse is going to help me complete the project. Some learned people think I am just hearing voices in my head. It's an awful thing when I am in the library on the computer, listening to music on the internet, writing something and suddenly, I hear a bunch of women screaming in my headphones. Then, I launch into often loud conversation trying to calm a group of arguing muses. These "ladies" are giving me a bad reputation here. It's all very strange for a gay man to hear women in his ears arguing with each other. People don't believe I hear these things. After a few minutes they discover that they have embarrassed me. There are no apologies. There are clear thoughts filled with the words I need to complete something under the fingers typing on the computer. Now, they've gone quiet. They aren't speaking to me because I am writing about them. My dears, I am so sorry, but I have to get another writer to respect your voices...to respect my dear sweet ladies who often ramble through my head like a hundred St. Bernards in search of a lost skier. So even though you have gone silent because of my words to this potentially fine writer, I know I shall hear your singing once again. So, J.G., you did have my attention and I hope this note is an explanation of my viewpoint that surrounds your poem. Please write some more for me and I hope to see you again soon. Your devoted reader, Barry.
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