Chas. Churchill: Unamused

Oct20

Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,
By prattling streams, o’er flower-empurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have pray’d
For apt Alliteration’s artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master’s skill,
Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:
Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit
For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,
Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour’d race.

From: The Prophecy of Famine by Charles Churchill (1732– 1764)

Be Mused Today

Jun4

To My Muse

Jane Turell (1708–1735)

COME, gentle muse, and once more lend thine aid,

O bring thy succor to a humble maid!

How often dost thou liberally dispense

To our dull breast thy quick’ning influence!

By thee inspired, I’ll cheerful tune my voice,

And love and sacred friendship make my choice.

In my pleased bosom you can freely pour,

A greater treasure than Jove’s golden shower.

Come now, fair muse, and fill my empty mind,

With rich ideas, great and unconfin’d.

Instruct me in those secret arts that lie

Unseen to all but to a poet’s eye.

O let me burn with Sappho’s noble fire,

But not like her for faithless man expire.

And let me rival great Orinda’s fame,

Or like sweet Philomela’s be my name.

Go lead the way, my muse, nor must you stop

Till we have gain’d Parnassus’ shady top:

Till I have view’d those fragrant soft retreats,

Those fields of bliss, the muses’ sacred seats.

I’ll then devote thee to fair virtue’s fame,

And so be worthy of a poet’s name.

Discovered in Bartleby’s goldmine

Our Lady of Poetry

Apr21

Rhyming verse is a woman scorned
to whom lip service must be paid.
Set free from meter, unadorned
Her lyric fury waits, delayed
as she rambles on in a free verse swoon,
oblivious to whoever’s listening,
babbling to the crescent moon
illuminated, horned and glistening,
bathing her deluded mind
in lunar metaphors of doom.
Do not provoke her—treat her kind
and let her pass to a padded room
or an attic space beneath the eves
where she can rant and find release;
until her frenzied soul believes
that words have meaning…
and rests in peace.

Just want you to know:
Gender is given by God—
So don’t mess with it.

Ode to the Nine

Apr1

Ἀπόλλων μουσηγέτης

A DEDICATORY ODE in NINE STANZAS

Ye NaPoWriMoids, hear my prayer
let’s mix our metaphors and dare
as fragrant smoke ascends the sky,
offend some readers by and by.

Apollo—grant me rocket fuel
to launch into your stratosphere.
Athena—by your wisdom, rule
and whisper in my waiting ear.

Receive this bright poetic spark
And let the Nine, as one, inspire
transform this puddle, stagnant, dark,
from sludge to pure Promethean fire.

Thou Father of Olympus, bless
our paltry April offering:
a dubious cybernetic mess
composed of poets’ suffering.

I’ll sing of waters fair (and foul),
uncork my potions for your ears
while Dionysus‘ Maenads howl
banishing our noetic fears.

A radiant poetic flush
beams forth from every laureled face.
The springs of Babel: let them gush
and bathe our souls in lyric grace.

A product line in low demand,
the blogosphere: our public forum;
quorum one man short of damned
where verses vie with vague decorum.

Consult your muse—then let it flow;
a rain of primaveral dreams
whose rivulets descend below
and swell the tributary streams;

to flooding verses, transcendental
irrigating, bringing life
(though some are merely excremental;
foaming sewage. . . ask my wife).