My friend Noah and I were talking about "writing" one night. We were both educated together for many years, and in our younger days we studied quite a bit of greek literature in which the authors' (usually poets) "Muses" would be invoked to help with the writing of something. This "Muse" idea has stuck with the both of us over the years and we were mulling it over together one night a few weeks ago. This poem comes from that conversation. I dedicate it to him. Love you, Noah.
Ode to Muse.
To speak in candor of her most curious ways,
This muse of mine visits not hither to stay
But her arrival thereupon, whenever occasioned,
From her expressive appeasement, I muster no dissuasion.
Speak must she, 'tis mine merely to acceed
To her inspiration, however may she seem.
An intemperate storm of intellectual leaning,
Self-bruits through me with her relentless meaning.
Obedient am I, if not left always wondering
If someday I may predict her giddy wandering--
If I'll understand her one day, as she fathoms me
Or if a thing predictable a muse cannot ever, ever be.
T. Emerson
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