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Secret Whisper
Member

since 2001-01-25

Posts 298
Through the Looking Glass

0 posted 2001-11-10 08:47 PM

For so many weeks
My pen has lain silent
Waiting for the Muse of life to come
And my pen was silent
But my heart was not
It yearned to lash out
It's long tongue of thought
My mind chattered on to no end
But my pen was silent
And so through dawn and dust
I sat
Waiting for my Muse
I searched every recesséd thought
And swarmed my creative bone
But my pen was silent
And now I write again
With heart so full
But with words so very empty

Quod me nutrit me destruit.
("What nourishes me also destroys me." - latin)

Sven

Member Laureate

since 1999-11-23

Posts 14937
East Lansing, MI USA

1 posted 2001-11-10 08:48 PM

is there such a thing as empty words?? hmmmmmm. . . will have to think about that one. . .

but, for now, this flowed very well. . . it's hard when the Muse takes a break. . . but, she'll be back. . .

-----------------------------------------------------

To the world, you may only be one person. But to one person, you may be the world.

Lone Wolf
Member Ascendant

since 2000-03-16

Posts 5842
Lansing, MI USA

2 posted 2001-11-10 10:12 PM

Very profound one, Secret Whisper. It's never easy on a writer when your Muse takes off for an unannounced vacation. I hope she returns to you full of hope and peace. Nice write.

All writing comes
by the grace of God.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

wornways
Member

since 2001-10-18

Posts 204
CA, USA

3 posted 2001-11-11 03:51 AM

i'd say your muse is at least on the homebound train by the looks of it. this makes me think of a poem called "It is Later Than You Think", by robert service. he started this poem off complaining about his lack of inspiration, then when this "pregnant phrase" came to him, he seized it and wrote a rather fascinating piece. one phrase can hold a lot of inspiration:

                                          It Is Later Than You Think

                                          Lone amid the cafe's cheer,
                                          Sad of heart am I to-night;
                                          Dolefully I drink my beer,
                                          But no single line I write.
                                          There's the wretched rent to pay,
                                          Yet I glower at pen and ink:
                                          Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray,
                                          "It is later than you think!"

                                          Hello! there's a pregnant phrase.
                                          Bravo! let me write it down;
                                          Hold it with a hopeful gaze,
                                          Gauge it with a fretful frown;
                                          Tune it to my lyric lyre . . .
                                          Ah! upon starvation's brink,
                                          How the words are dark and dire:
                                          It is later than you think.

                                          Weigh them well. . . . Behold yon band,
                                          Students drinking by the door,
                                          Madly merry, bock in hand,
                                          Saucers stacked to mark their score.
                                          Get you gone, you jolly scamps;
                                          Let your parting glasses clink;
                                          Seek your long neglected lamps:
                                          It is later than you think.

                                          Look again: yon dainty blonde,
                                          All allure and golden grace,
                                          Oh so willing to respond
                                          Should you turn a smiling face.
                                          Play your part, poor pretty doll;
                                          Feast and frolic, pose and prink;
                                          There's the Morgue to end it all,
                                          And it's later than you think.

                                          Yon's a playwright -- mark his face,
                                          Puffed and purple, tense and tired;
                                          Pasha-like he holds his place,
                                          Hated, envied and admired.
                                          How you gobble life, my friend;
                                          Wine, and woman soft and pink!
                                          Well, each tether has its end:
                                          Sir, it's later than you think.

                                          See yon living scarecrow pass
                                          With a wild and wolfish stare
                                          At each empty absinthe glass,
                                          As if he saw Heaven there.
                                          Poor damned wretch, to end your pain
                                          There is still the Greater Drink.
                                          Yonder waits the sanguine Seine . . .
                                          It is later than you think.

                                          Lastly, you who read; aye, you
                                          Who this very line may scan:
                                          Think of all you planned to do . . .
                                          Have you done the best you can?
                                          See! the tavern lights are low;
                                          Black's the night, and how you shrink!
                                          God! and is it time to go?
                                          Ah! the clock is always slow;
                                          It is later than you think;
                                          Sadly later than you think;
                                          Far, far later than you think.

                                                             --- Robert Service

nakdthoughts
Member Laureate

since 2000-10-29

Posts 19200
Between the Lines

4 posted 2001-11-11 06:27 AM

But my heart was not
It yearned to lash out
It's long tongue of thought
My mind chattered on to no end

what a beautiful bit of writing *s

~Wynter

"For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart.
It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul."
(J.Garland)

Mistletoe Angel

Member Empyrean

since 2000-12-17

Posts 32816
Portland, Oregon

5 posted 2001-11-11 12:52 PM

(big hugggssssss) Oh Alice, your beautiful heart always shines in your words, and they're always so wonderful no matter what! (smiles) May your beautiful heart always sing with inspiration! (kiss on cheek) I LOVE IT!!! You have such a beautiful heart, sweet Alice, thank you for sharing!

May love and light always shine upon you!

Love,
Noah Eaton

Maverick Wolf
Member

since 1999-11-13

Posts 94
Scandia, MN

6 posted 2001-11-28 10:40 PM

If only the mind and pen were linked. Ink cannot understand emotion, as we cannot understand what it is to be without them. The pen does not write, the soul does. But a restless soul must manipulate the pen to be heard. Great write, Alice.

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