New poem about muses and plot bunnies :D
Mar. 26th, 2010 01:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jadelyntateI tried to do this in a very formal format but I'm not sure if I stick to that enough or if its even consistent. It's in five parts and is currently untitled so any suggestions would be appreciated
I
just as Pangaea evolved into our world, so too have the muses
they have changed with the times, become new inspiration
they are numerous, widely spread, have names, titles
as diverse as those they look after, the people they breath life into
there is a street in the writers mind where her muses live
Lantis with her plots, Dawn with her books, Addy with her dreams
They are not Calliope with her writing tablet
Melpomene and Thalia with their masks, nor Erato with her cithara
They are the writers’ and the writers’ alone, shades of the original nine
molded and reduced to forms that she can recognize
They are not noble nor are they celestial
instead, They are products of their time, of the Y Generation
They are messy, smart, and human, not progeny of the pantheon
the writer is the only one they inspire and they are careful and crafty
They keep many ideas caged and sometimes they let them loose
so that the writer will have to pull out a notebook to get her thoughts down
before the creative breath fades and all she is left with
is a few scribbled words and a feeling of lost inspiration
II
Lantis inspires the writer the most, having more cages of leporids
than any other in her mind's street. The cages are filled
with ideas and plots, some calm, others rabid and eager to leave
to invade the mind of the writer, to inspire pages upon pages of prose
Lantis spends most of her time keeping her ideas caged
running after and scooping them up when they escape
sometimes they escape en masse and she cannot catch them all
leaving them outside her yard, in the street of the writers mind
uncaged for days or weeks on end, these escaped leporids
play havoc on the writers ability to focus on anything else
Lantis works so often, her eyes are glazed with no sleep
she survives on caffeine and sugar and the sparse nutrients in soup
her hair is a wild mess, nature stuck in the tangles from
dives to wrangle rabid leporids back into their cages
Lantis’ home is a small plot of land and a shack for shelter
rows of hutches fill the yard, with open spaces for new ones
when the rest grow too crowded with leporids
that come when Lantis least expects them.
III
Dawn is the second oldest of the writers’ muses, quiet and shy
she doesn’t often poke her head out of the books she reads constantly
her leporids come from around the writer
snippets of conversations, found poems turned into short fiction
Dawn has baby leporids, subplots that curl around the adults
sometimes they get too excited, too arrogant, and when they get loose
the writer goes in a way not expected, the prose changing
as the baby leporids turns into a teenager
the writer fears these teenagers more than the adults
for when one gets ideas, everything they touch changes
Dawn is usually neat as a pin, though you can always tell when
the leporids have been by to spread their special type of madness
for her eyes becomes shadowed and her hair goes into a messy braid
for their excitement leaves her no time to straighten up
Dawn lives in the four bedroom home, an immaculate yard the opposite
of her sisters across the street. Dawn’s rooms are filled with shelves
in them are books of every subject, every genre, to use as templates
examples of the short fiction her leporids inspire.
IV
Addy is the latest and the shyest, only a year in
she came with the poems, inspired herself by the great authors of the earth
she dreams of inspiring words that will last the ages, to be read and treasured
as she herself has done with the epics that had been inspired by the muses of old
Addy is quiet and soft-spoken, she doesn't often put herself in a position to inspire,
to let loose her few and scattered leporids, who burn out quicker than the others
her inspirations are not for prose, to be read in a hundred pages, but in poetry
that is short, to the point, and sometimes misunderstood by the readers
she treasures her leporids for just this reason
for each has meaning that is sometimes hard to show
Addy, as a dreamer, doesn't often pay attention to her appearance,
she believes that appearance is nothing to talent and that the greatest gift
she posseses is finding those moments, quick instances, that spark
a new leporid, a new idea or poem in a small little body
Addy doesn't cage her leporids as the others do, inside her small cottage or out
they know she will send them only when the writer is ready to receive them with joy
her home is always open, but there are shadows in corners
where the most scared leporids hide to avoid being sent and put on display
V
The street in the writer's mind is long and curved, with only the three homes
occupied. The rest are empty and each different. One is covered in shadows,
a consistent reminder of the memories the writer desperately wishes to forget
though the muse who will come to live here will be her greatest
Another is in perpetual sunlight and filled with roses that remain stubbornly
closed, for the muse who lived here died with the writers innocence as young girl
The most common are the blank spots, land with no defining features
for the muses the writer is not expecting but who will come either way
these are the ones that will start with a single leporid, alone but content to wait
for its muse, who will come when the leporid multiplies and need to be cared for
The writer suspects that the houses will never be filled at the same time
for as you grow, you change, and muses are sometimes left alone
with no new leporids coming and all the old ones shriveled and dead on the ground
emptied of leporid and muse alike, the houses remain as a tribute
When the writer has canyons in her skin and the ages in her eyes,
the street will close. Houses boarded up and the muses names forgotten to all, even herself
so she writes this poem, inspired by Calliope, by Lantis, by the nameless to come
to remember the ones who bring her an endless joy.
I
just as Pangaea evolved into our world, so too have the muses
they have changed with the times, become new inspiration
they are numerous, widely spread, have names, titles
as diverse as those they look after, the people they breath life into
there is a street in the writers mind where her muses live
Lantis with her plots, Dawn with her books, Addy with her dreams
They are not Calliope with her writing tablet
Melpomene and Thalia with their masks, nor Erato with her cithara
They are the writers’ and the writers’ alone, shades of the original nine
molded and reduced to forms that she can recognize
They are not noble nor are they celestial
instead, They are products of their time, of the Y Generation
They are messy, smart, and human, not progeny of the pantheon
the writer is the only one they inspire and they are careful and crafty
They keep many ideas caged and sometimes they let them loose
so that the writer will have to pull out a notebook to get her thoughts down
before the creative breath fades and all she is left with
is a few scribbled words and a feeling of lost inspiration
II
Lantis inspires the writer the most, having more cages of leporids
than any other in her mind's street. The cages are filled
with ideas and plots, some calm, others rabid and eager to leave
to invade the mind of the writer, to inspire pages upon pages of prose
Lantis spends most of her time keeping her ideas caged
running after and scooping them up when they escape
sometimes they escape en masse and she cannot catch them all
leaving them outside her yard, in the street of the writers mind
uncaged for days or weeks on end, these escaped leporids
play havoc on the writers ability to focus on anything else
Lantis works so often, her eyes are glazed with no sleep
she survives on caffeine and sugar and the sparse nutrients in soup
her hair is a wild mess, nature stuck in the tangles from
dives to wrangle rabid leporids back into their cages
Lantis’ home is a small plot of land and a shack for shelter
rows of hutches fill the yard, with open spaces for new ones
when the rest grow too crowded with leporids
that come when Lantis least expects them.
III
Dawn is the second oldest of the writers’ muses, quiet and shy
she doesn’t often poke her head out of the books she reads constantly
her leporids come from around the writer
snippets of conversations, found poems turned into short fiction
Dawn has baby leporids, subplots that curl around the adults
sometimes they get too excited, too arrogant, and when they get loose
the writer goes in a way not expected, the prose changing
as the baby leporids turns into a teenager
the writer fears these teenagers more than the adults
for when one gets ideas, everything they touch changes
Dawn is usually neat as a pin, though you can always tell when
the leporids have been by to spread their special type of madness
for her eyes becomes shadowed and her hair goes into a messy braid
for their excitement leaves her no time to straighten up
Dawn lives in the four bedroom home, an immaculate yard the opposite
of her sisters across the street. Dawn’s rooms are filled with shelves
in them are books of every subject, every genre, to use as templates
examples of the short fiction her leporids inspire.
IV
Addy is the latest and the shyest, only a year in
she came with the poems, inspired herself by the great authors of the earth
she dreams of inspiring words that will last the ages, to be read and treasured
as she herself has done with the epics that had been inspired by the muses of old
Addy is quiet and soft-spoken, she doesn't often put herself in a position to inspire,
to let loose her few and scattered leporids, who burn out quicker than the others
her inspirations are not for prose, to be read in a hundred pages, but in poetry
that is short, to the point, and sometimes misunderstood by the readers
she treasures her leporids for just this reason
for each has meaning that is sometimes hard to show
Addy, as a dreamer, doesn't often pay attention to her appearance,
she believes that appearance is nothing to talent and that the greatest gift
she posseses is finding those moments, quick instances, that spark
a new leporid, a new idea or poem in a small little body
Addy doesn't cage her leporids as the others do, inside her small cottage or out
they know she will send them only when the writer is ready to receive them with joy
her home is always open, but there are shadows in corners
where the most scared leporids hide to avoid being sent and put on display
V
The street in the writer's mind is long and curved, with only the three homes
occupied. The rest are empty and each different. One is covered in shadows,
a consistent reminder of the memories the writer desperately wishes to forget
though the muse who will come to live here will be her greatest
Another is in perpetual sunlight and filled with roses that remain stubbornly
closed, for the muse who lived here died with the writers innocence as young girl
The most common are the blank spots, land with no defining features
for the muses the writer is not expecting but who will come either way
these are the ones that will start with a single leporid, alone but content to wait
for its muse, who will come when the leporid multiplies and need to be cared for
The writer suspects that the houses will never be filled at the same time
for as you grow, you change, and muses are sometimes left alone
with no new leporids coming and all the old ones shriveled and dead on the ground
emptied of leporid and muse alike, the houses remain as a tribute
When the writer has canyons in her skin and the ages in her eyes,
the street will close. Houses boarded up and the muses names forgotten to all, even herself
so she writes this poem, inspired by Calliope, by Lantis, by the nameless to come
to remember the ones who bring her an endless joy.
