The Artist’s Lament

A fool I was to pin my happiness on you.

When now I see you’ve been untrue.

Leaving me at times of dire need

My hapless whisperings, took no heed.

Where were you at the dead of night?

Those precious hours, at down, took flight:

Whilst I alone remain in sorry state

Longing for my ill matched mate.

A fool I was to pin my hopes on you

But now I see you’ve been untrue.

Beguiling me with your dazzling feeling.

Then from me, in the darkness stealing.

Where did you go? Which undeserving soul did you see?

Bestowing your ecstasy on them, not me.

A fool I was to give my self to you

As now, I see you’ve been untrue.

I ask of myself, Is it something I’ve done?

As I watch you, carelessly go and come.

Can I last yet another night?

When will Destiny and Time put this wrong to right?


Writings on the source of creativity


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.



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


‘Where art thou, Muse’? The incubation period.

It is with deep frustration and twisted emotion that I experience these barren deserts of creative stuntedness. They call it the incubation period. What creativity will be born from this incubation? What new idea will hatch out from this dull wasteland of impeded creative flow? Shakespeare himself so perfectly puts it…

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time’s spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife.

Sonnet 100 by William Shakespeare

 The urge to create does not go, yet I am unsatisfied with my worthless scribbles, forced to sit for long hours pondering a blank canvas. I fool myself by preparing the equipment carefully and lovingly with the secret hope that some drop of creativity will trickle through and release this block. The hours tick by and the canvas remains as white as light, the tools return to their place at the end of another fruitless night.