The second part of my poetic series, The Muse Chronicles.
Polyhymnia was the Muse of Rhetoric. She was said to have brought fame to those who invoked her to aid their writing.
Sly Polyhymnia consists of three poems, In Sooth, Dream and Reality. Dream is a new addition, Reality is an edited version of The Act.
Come, come hither
Under the sun, sit thee here
Lend thine curious ear
Well will thee be rewarded
For thine time
And pen
Upon a thinking mind, I attach,
And organize the thoughts therein.
Trembling hands, a soft word: details to match,
Ignoring Her would be sin.
Such concepts even simple minds catch.
There is little to me,
Give me no countenance.
What I am, is nothing you can see.
I am of little substance,
And merely energy.
To the mind I find,
I give myself completely.
Leaving my old self behind
—without charging a fee,
Not even expecting to be repaid in kind.
Upon the mind, I inspire
Such great fire
That causeth many a buyer
To flock to the mire
Where I dwell
[Retire]
A Muse is nothing, yet everything
No one wonders their story,
And the Artist: so demanding!
The Muse must be energetic
Enthusiastic, ever helping.
Or else be cast in the Mud
A Muse must be ever self-sacrificing
Molding, adapting to the every whim
Of the one they’re inspiring
Or risk being called cruel, fickle
Simply teasing.
A Muse cannot be Earthly
Or humanly pleasures pursuiting
They must be lofty, ambiguously mysterious
Else the revered icon fall, shatt’ring
To the ground
The beautiful Creature, that be clamouring,
Be called Fraud
This is where I'm going to write about whatever books I'm reading.
