Dear Muse

Last night at out weekly critique meeting, Marcia brought her neighbor Earl. He's a retired professor of music and aesthetics who has now turned his full attention to poetry. I heard him read at her birthday party this fall and was moved to tears by a poem about his mother, so I was excited to hear more. He brought a sheaf of poems and we read about five. There was one about the Muse that I loved so much I asked to take my copy home. With his permission, I'll reprint it here.

Dear Muse

Each night, along another stretch of heart,
I dig, or work some old abandoned claim.
Years of fever for this golden art
and me without an image to my name.
Look. No luxuries; the room is bare.
These books are paperback; those bits of art
were gifts; one bulb to light the desk and chair
where I can lean my mind against my heart.

And all for what? Less than a word an hour;
it barely meets the interest on my loans.
To pay a bird I borrow from a flower,
and I need words that skip like small smooth stones
across a pond; my mind is a stagnant moat.
There are some soft explosions in the silt;
I can make out a promissory note.
You've helped before; I'm overwhelmed with guilt
asking again, but what with all I've spent
I don't have a verse for next months rent.

--Earl Jones