My Muse Options

[Guest_Ldoone_*]

My Muse

It is a struggle
with this muse living, within my molecules.

Sparring with my mind
Finding the words and letting them sing
Ancient Andalusian voices, the duende in my blood.
Sometimes I wonder if the words are mine. Or a spirit
of some unknown artist.

Standing outside the gates of Andalusia—
soft winds blowing—the tunic of Lippi, the
violin of Masolino of Russo.

The artist rustles the branches, living flesh,
responds by dancing away from reality, to
new landscapes, unfamiliar accents
A thousand different sensations.

The muse talks slow and quiet: arriving with dust and thunder,
its rhythms drift slow and sweet
knitted into mine
for comfort

More numerous than the sand on the desert
The muse, the angel and Duende. Make me
throw back my head and yell ole’ ole’
As he hurls my heart against the horns

Deunde loves wounds and fever,
rages, melancholies and drama,
its as if he invented them.

He fights reality to keep from being silenced
When it snows he sends out Herrera to prove,
that cold need not kill.

[Guest_itsmechris_*]

It is a struggle
with this muse living, within my molecules.

Sparring with my mind
Finding the words and letting them sing
Ancient Andalusian voices, the duende in my blood.
Sometimes I wonder if the words are mine. Or a spirit
of some unknown artist.

“Duende: a fairy- or goblin-like creature in Spanish and Latin American mythology.”
There is quite a lot happening here, not sure I follow the aspirations. Though
I do like your reference to the influences of an “unknown spirit,” as we sometimes
wonder where our inspiration comes from, as opposed to subconscious imagination.

Standing outside the gates of Andalusia—
soft winds blowing—the tunic of Lippi, the
violin of Masolino of Russo.

I feel disconnected from this stanza, as I am not acclimated to the customs of Spain.

The artist rustles the branches, living flesh,
responds by dancing away from reality, to
new landscapes, unfamiliar accents
A thousand different sensations.

The muse talks slow and quiet: arriving with dust and thunder,
its rhythms drift slow and sweet
knitted into mine
for comfort

More numerous than the sand/grains? on the desert
The muse, the angel/matador? and Duende. Make me
throw back my head and yell ole’ ole’
As he hurls my (heart) against the horns (a matadors red cape?)

If by “more numerous” you are referring to “a thousand different sensations,” I feel this line is located too far from the latter. Than again I wouldn’t fit the two together without finding that, it tends to say the “same thing, differently.” Also I read this as a reference to “the running of the bulls,” as this it is a Spanish theme. Perhaps the “numerous” spectators awe struck by the matador? A festival of inspiration so to speak.

Deunde loves wounds and fever,
rages/raises?, melancholies and drama,
its as if he invented them.

Here again I’m drawn back to running bulls, as “wounds, fever, melancholies, suggest something hurtful, or the frustrations of writers block?

He fights reality to keep from being silenced
When it snows he sends out Herrera to prove,
that cold need not kill.

The climate need not be cold, for it to snow? If this is a metaphor relating to snow falling
and backtracking to “The muse, the angel” as in a snow angel or demigod of winter?

On a side note...as an individual that is pretty unfamiliar with Spanish culture, I had to complete about 45 minutes of research to discover the in and outs of the vocabulary and allusions to Spanish culture that you included in your poem. I genuinely wanted to learn about your poem and about your perspective, therefore I put the time in, so to speak, to enlighten myself of the possible origins of where your words came. However, many readers may not have the time or desire to research so it may be helpful if you included some footnotes at the end of your poem citing specific definitions to lead the reader on the correct path to better express the origins of your muse. Your poem is stemmed from a flood of creative historical allusions, and I think your reader would better appreciate it if a “ready-reference” of footnotes was at his or her disposal to aid with comprehension.

Thank you for brightening my day with an insight into Spanish culture.
I appreciate your artful expression in your work, and hope to read more from you soon. If nothing
else I hope that my critique was helpful. Sincerely, Chris.

[Dee]

Hey L! Welcome. I'm glad to see you made it here. I very much enjoyed reading your poem. It has a magical quality and I have somewhat of a weakness for that at this point in my life. *smiles* I just have a few comments/suggestions.

My Muse

It is a struggle
with this muse living, within my molecules. Love this.

Sparring with my mind
Finding the words and letting them sing
Ancient Andalusian voices, the duende in my blood.
Sometimes I wonder if the words are mine. Or a spirit
of some unknown artist. What a cool thought, huh.

Standing outside the gates of Andalusia—
soft winds blowing—the tunic of Lippi, the
violin of Masolino of Russo. I too am unsure of the true meaning here, but it sounds beautiful.

The artist rustles the branches, living flesh,
responds by dancing away from reality, to
new landscapes, unfamiliar accents
A thousand different sensations. This stanza holds so true in writing, especially poetry.

The muse talks slow and quiet: arriving with dust and thunder, "thunder" distracts me here because of the gentle nature of the rest of the stanza. Perhaps change it to "wonder".
its rhythms drift slow and sweet
knitted into mine
for comfort I understand the comfort here, but somehow it falls flat for me. I feel the need for a more powerful word. Perhaps: inexplicable creativity (you know, since we are talking muse) *shrug* Just something that popped into my head.

More numerous than the sand on the desert
The muse, the angel and Duende. Make me
throw back my head and yell ole’ ole’
As he hurls my heart against the horns Painful creativity?

Deunde loves wounds and fever,
rages, melancholies and drama,
its as if he invented them. Love this stanza.

He fights reality to keep from being silenced
When it snows he sends out Herrera to prove,
that cold need not kill. This line confused me because of the previous stanza. Perhaps more exploration is needed here at the end.

I sincerely hope you will post more of your work, L. I thoroughly enjoyed this piece.

Dee

[galoutofdixie]

Hi Ldoone,


Interesting piece here. I have always liked the concept of duende, and I think you used it well here. I immediately understood the struggle going on. The only part I felt did not quite fit was this stanza:

The artist rustles the branches, living flesh,
responds by dancing away from reality, to
new landscapes, unfamiliar accents
A thousand different sensations.

For some reason, it feels to me like this breaks up the poem, like a bump in the road that you wish wasn't there. I think the poem would be better without it. Again,that's just my opinion, feel free to totally ignore it!!

Other than that, I think you definitely have something here and I am interested to see what other comments you may get.

Thanks for sharing