Writings on the source of creativity

Inspirations

Snippets from the Radio, sound waves with meaning,

A smell and the memory of some past feeling.

The heart rate quickens, thoughts start racing,

Images and flashes from the depths come rushing.

Parts of your voice come filtering through, a tapestry of threads,

The warp and weft of your voice and my Muse weaving in and between,

This energy, a force from the deep unseen.

I cannot escape these creative jaws,

Like the mouse in a cat’s playful paws,

I am taken and captured,

Tossed, yet enraptured

At this beauteous state, so instinctive and free

A drop from the ocean of True creativity.

What then will become of it when the moment is gone?

Will it become sullied, tainted with ego?

Who’s idea was it? Not mine, I’m sure

As it was I who waited and watched it mature.

From inspiration to imagination,

Thought form to manifestation,

The process changes as I now take part

In the physical making of what they call Art.

But in fact it is all and act,

A masquerade acted by a fool

Who’s caught up by artistic drool.

A creator who has lost their purpose

And remains trapped upon the surface.

Snippets from the radio, sound waves with meaning

A smell, and the memory of some past feeling.

The heart rate quickens, thoughts start racing

Images and flashes from the depths come rushing.

Anonymous

Sonnet XXXVIII

How can my Muse want subject to invent,

While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

O! give thyself the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;

For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou thyself dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

If my slight Muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

William Shakespeare

 

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