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| In fear of the rich mouth | |
| Oct. 26, 2002 ] 8:26 PM | |
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It is such a quaint idea to think that all my muses are male. Never has a woman touched me enough to inspire me to write. I tried constructing a poem about my mother, but like the crumbling edifices that made up the metaphor, the foundations crumbled into motes of dust. All my poetry is about love, in some shape and form, but it is the erotic love, the masculine adoration, the Myrrha taint. All my poetry is about love, the sad, the dark, the ugly, the masochistic, the evocation of disillusionment. To varying degrees, each muse-like figure has far too many poems accredited to them. Far too many. I should make a conscious attempt to break free from such inspiration, try another direction. Fascinating. Even the men who do not inspire love have poetry stemming from their presence. Dedicated to the lingering memory of their trek into my life. The men I loved, I feared, I shunned,and I set myself up for the Fall. Such wistfulness about a mermaid, the Venus-figure of my poem is male, the child born of the sea foam and the quiet pink oyster shell is male, a male mermaid of my dreams. I will re-work that poem one day. Remove the Marvell idiosyncrasies.
I kissed the thin - Even that was a trap To snare me in Louise Bogan Jealousy is a disease, and I suffer terribly from it. It is the pretty poison from admiration. The pretty poison that has no cure. Mine is the pain, self-inflicted. Mine is the sullen mouth swallowing the words, the snakes that slither and crawl through the dark tunnels of your heart. Mine is the heart that has lost its power to hurt, for more than blood flows through the heart. I have lost the power to hurt. And while time has healed their wounds; the ulcer, the running sore, the gaping, rotting wound that is my need to control, to shape, to mould my surroundings into what I wish will never do so. Like everything else I do, it is flawed; it is imperfect; the pitted surface cannot be smoothed over, cannot be hidden away. Can I ever nurture anything without tainting it with my miasma of darkness, my legacy of pain and of sorrow? Let it grow and flourish and bloom as it should? No the dark seed that is me will grow and overwhelm all men's eyes, into a strangling weed whose sole purpose is to inflict, to suffocate, to poison everything I touch. My muses will not die. They will be immortalised as long as I live, in my pen and on my paper, and in my heart, the silhouettes of puppets, never truly their own. Their reality will be destroyed, mutilated beyond reality by the cruel artistry of my pen. Will I ever find peace? But I never write anything without the faintest corruption of asperity. I never write enough. Or well. Or beautiful. My pen, is a murderer who slays without compunction, the true beauty of my subjects. |
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