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
