pondering the religion of poetry
Written by William F. DeVault on October 21, 2009 – 3:14 pm -My brain aches. Not like a headache, but in that pulled-muscle way that I experience when I am pushing hard to discover a new truth, integrate great epiphanies or figure out what a lover wants for Christmas.
If poetry is my religion, that is to say the means by which I worship the Almighty, then what role do the muses play in the belief system? Yeah, to most that’s right up there with angels doing the hokey-pokey on the head of a pin, or some pinhead of some sort, but to me that’s a serious question, a tough nut to crack and a source of great distraction.
Could it be said that all muses are revelations, even prophets, sometimes even unaware of their influence, but that the one true muse would be the equivalent of a Messiah? Yes. Hold it. Have to think about this.
The partial revelations that were Alabaster. Psyche. Valkyrie. Arachne. Dawn. Panther. The Goldenheart. Selke. Brigit. Angel. The Mad Gypsy. Leopard. Nightblooming. Aubergine. And all the fits and sparks of light in night skies that often only I alone can see. The debris of a mystery built on a history worn to the bone. Unatoned atonality. The finality of beginnings. The start of a heart that, for now, has no sign of life, no spark of purpose.
See? I told you it gets crazy in there. In here. Somewhere…over the rainbow. Hmmph.
Tags: Muses
Posted in Journal, Muses, Religion |
October 21st, 2009 at 6:24 pm
if you could know the answer would it change how it all functions?
November 13th, 2009 at 8:58 am
Perhaps, perhaps not, but my life is always about knowing all I can, even the things that cut and burn and aches and tear and disappoint. There is no sin greater than withholding knowledge, especially relevant knowledge. Knowledge is power. Power is the ultimate currency of survival. Anyone who denies me knowledge is saying I have no right to survive. That they chose to be anathema (almost said nemesis, but I have proven that no one holds that rank and privilege in my sphere).
To any poet, and writer, any thinker, silence is an abomination.