The Muse

Welcome back, poetry people!

The concept of a Muse isn’t foreign, and I thought I understood it; inspiration’s an easy concept to grasp, right? When I first started writing in middle and high school, I was only channeling into repressed trauma, which is why I was so easily deterred from continuing my writing journey early on. It took being possessed by this force, connecting with this irresistible inspirational spirit that has no mercy nor even a notion of its effects on its captive, to show me the light.

My second book of poetry, self-published, is a collection of poems dedicated to the Muse. The poems in Rhythm and Muse highlight the incredible inherent connection found in music, poetry, and dance. If you enjoy my poems in this newsletter, you will enjoy my book Rhythm and Muse. Four of the five poems here can be found inside, even if I have expounded on them and changed several in some capacity.

Call to her, beg her grace and attention.

The only word for it is a calling, and the fruits of the fertilized vine are rich and glorious. This surrender doesn’t mean obsessively rewriting the same poem about the same person or thing. It means allowing the specter of creativity to spark no matter the time or place and heeding the call. Even though I can definitely say that having repressed trauma is by no means some higher calling or gift to one’s art, I was apathetic at best towards tapping into it or sharing my story.

As soon as I started looking at things through a new lens, wanting to see the truth, I gained the courage to face the once soul-crushing pain and can now forge it into words of power. Allowing the Muse to color my perception instead of the other way around allows horrific scenes of brutality to transform into beautiful works of art.

Not only that, cultivating artistic connections in this world may be seen as strange or frivolous, but it is what we need to sustain our art and our lives. Creating the accounts I needed to present my writing has introduced me to an entirely new group of people: a supportive crowd of writers, readers, painters, and sketch artists, people who live in the creative reality I want to live in.

Taking advice and hearing feedback from people with the same goals and the same love for the Muse also helped keep my perspective situated at the appropriate angle so I could start to see things the way other people are seeing them, and not from the abusive negative angle these manipulative, controlling forces were always taking with me. At first, it was hard to accept the feedback I got from these new sources because it was contrary to most of the feedback I had previously gotten. The more positive and constructive feedback I got, the easier it was for me to accept.

The Flame of The Muse Beckons

I had to choose to stand in the light of The Muse or shrink back into darkness again. Every artist has to make that choice at some point, and what you find in the light may not be pretty; it may come close to breaking you. I know it did me, but creating from a place of truth and light, even if you shine a light on hellacious darkness, is the only way to uplift others with your art. Everything else will just be some stuff we all did while we were bored.

My life has been changed by accepting the muse, the miracle of inspiration, into my heart. Creativity isn’t a superpower only bestowed upon unique, eclectic weirdos. It is a law of nature, a force working within the fabric of reality, that we tap into. Some more often than others by relinquishing control. I understand why some people feel like they have no creativity and will never be able to tap into it. They are all black-and-white thinking; they can not relinquish control for some; it isn’t a choice.

Throughout the day, I feel like that. I have periods every day when I have no access to my creativity because I am using the rules part of my brain. It’s part of why I can’t impose too many rules on my writing, or it saps my creativity away. The rigidity snaps into focus and shuts it all down.

This poem is me trying to break free of that mold; I decided to create my own format; this was my first go at it; in this attempt, I went for ten stanzas of increasing lines from one to ten. In each stanza, I increased the number of words per line, again, from one to ten. I have made several other attempts at this format, using slight variations; you will no doubt see those eventually.

The Flame of The Muse Beckons

Warmth

Beaming forth
Illuminating smile

Fire touched soul
Perfect flickering coif
Dazzling ember glow

That lilting melodic laugh
Brings broken hearts back
Comforts sighing souls, alas
It shores me up

Every empathetic thought and gesture
Raises and lowers your pedestal
Your humanity draws me nearer
Saving grace, your heroic namesake 
Simple words can change fate

Breath carries your essence to me
Waves travel through the space between
Connecting your mind to my own
I cherish every moment you’ve restored
Eternal calamity and instants of ecstasy
Gifts that cannot be un-given now

Singing your fated siren song to me
Sending out tokens of priceless balmy charity
They fall like petals from cherry trees
Caressing my heart and soul with beauty
A concept hitherto unknown to my body
You shed light upon me without knowing
It is the way of the muse

I await inspiration on hands and bended knees
Stretching and straining under memory’s great burdening weight
Knowing I wouldn't have to face it alone
The only comfort worthy of my stolen time
I transmit time’s lost truths at your behest
Calling, as I meditate on melody and bridge
Images demand I create them with lyrical paints
Only way to keep the demons at bay

The power of self actualization thrumming in every beat
Not just sound, movement rouses life’s passion and heat
Rising from my position prostrate creative energy flowing internally
First, darkness and poison are drawn from my wounds
Enshrouding the attended chamber, I sway and contort inside
A marionette, members reaching any vertices at any point 
Sound waves vibrating and tossing me like water droplets
Sonic bursts, bringing forth debris, floating impromptu life rafts
Clinging to each in turn wafting to the top

Finally, at the apex of my reverent journey, I ignite
Immolating in time’s endless stream made accessible in your intonation
Slag, dripping from my melting aura, burning through carved floorboards
I peer through the holes into my soul’s very core
Shining treasure entwined inside, churning with the rotten, dripping gore
The unbearable past being smelted away like precious metallic ores 
The refining inferno that completely engulfs my way of being
It produces quality material that’s beyond mere technical purity standards
The muse’s flame smokes me out of my tightest flue
It atomizes every incandescent mote of dust as I explode

Pools Of Fire

I find it’s helpful always to set up your environment to invite your muse in. Whether that means setting up a playlist on your music system of choice, lighting incense or candles, or maybe you prefer moving yourself to the outdoors to allow creativity to flow all around you. Prepare your space for creating.

If you have a particular theme or concept in mind, I recommend getting your research out of the way first so you can settle into the flow of creating. If you’ve ever had the simplest idea, they slip in and out of your mind like a greased pig playing coy at a county fair. If you aren’t prepared to voice your thoughts, they will immediately vacate your mind and body, and the muse will find someone more readily in tune.

I keep a physical notebook by my bed and in my purse; I also use the notes application on my phone and numerous programs on my desktop and Laptop. There is always something open and ready to accept my keystrokes or written input. And I still get ideas while actively showering or talking to someone and cannot disengage. There will always be missed opportunities; the important poems, ideas, and art pieces are the ones we actually manage to create, so let's give ourselves the best chance for productivity.

Pools Of Fire

You have set my pen ablaze
My soul is tested in the fire
It has come out
Purified
A pool of burning 
Ink and desire
Every word saturated with
Volatile fuel 
Even I am not sure 
They will arrive
At your door
Before combusting 
In a sea of white-hot 
Truth and renewal 
I try holding my breath
To avoid igniting 
A back-draft
Sending me hurtling 
In a burning 
Spiral of emotion
Until it can’t 
be held back anymore
I blast out a plume
Like a raging dragon
The cloud of illuminated gas
Hot enough to be a sun
Filled with every 
Conceivable emotion
Causing all
Especially you, my beloved
To run
In fear of being melted 
In the shimmering wake
There are none safe 
When the fireball kicks up
All combustible materials 
Eaten up in its raging path
No exceptions made
I stand in the center of a 
Barren land, swirling dust
Ash spilling from open hands
I will wander alone 
Spontaneously combusting 
Writing down every thought 
Only to have 
The words stoke up a spark 
Exploding into flames

Muse-ical

Spark of Curiosity

The Muse can take any form; you can find your greatest inspiration in the wonder of the mechanical workings and the ingenuity humans have displayed in inventing, creating, and maintaining them. Maybe the extraordinary order of the cosmic expanse sings infinite songs in your heart. The chromatic spectrum could embody creativity; in fact, there are infinite ways to describe The Muse because she is creativity, and creativity is everywhere all of the time.

We may allow one thing, person, or concept to embody our muse and direct our eye, distilling that energy into a quantifiable, palpable, and describable form. However, that isn’t The Muse; it’s simply a conduit.

So, how can creativity do all of these fantastic things? How can it save our lives and change the world? Creative thinking is where all the solutions to our problems come from. Following the same failing proven painful path may prevent mass panic, but solutions it does not create. We need creativity for our achievement and well-being, as well as societal achievement and well-being.

Muse-ical

Spark of Curiosity

Inspiration 
From your tuneful spring, it flows
In skittering, electric rays
Striking me hard
To the fragmenting in my soul
I let it clear the way
Reconstructing the reality
Of which even
I was unaware
Stored on an internal drive
Programmed at my creation
laid in my veins
Yet never installed and operated properly
A secret folder, password-protected
Your permissions bypassed my locks 
Breached my most sensitive data files 
Allowing me access 
Through your musical key 
All escaping, like the doom of the world 
As I simply attempt to see the contents
At least I am left with hope
For the first time
flashing across my screens

Joy Unbound

Once you have identified your muse, the mystical source of your inspiration, don’t let yourself get distracted. Settle in for the long haul if you want a significant breakthrough. The muse doesn’t just give it all away. You have to work with every glimmer and drop that is shed upon you. This isn’t like some perfect painting, bathing in a waterfall, the inspiration pouring down in a constant stream.

This poem for example, I would say is a glimmer. Reviewing and reformatting it, I had a vision of a balloon set into the negative space of the poem. Getting that part to work right and, more importantly, transferring to the newsletter I sent to you took as much time as transferring and formatting all the other poems combined. But the joy it sparked when I finally saw the image transfer was enormous!

You, too, may have to follow unspooling threads of inspiration, chasing them through the ever-expanding yonder. Rain or shine, capturing pockets of creative energy, using that fuel to fly to your next strand, following where it may lead you.

Joy Unbound

Just when the last blast of heat 
has run out of gas underneath my 
coated canvas sheet
you give another hearty yank
g
n
i
t
o
o
h
sending the flame S  

high inside my globe, creating a massive boost in temperature
and altitude. I rocket upwards the moment before we come 
crashing down upon the______________________ground, your feet almost
grazing grass___________________________________inside a basket
woven flat__________________________________________I picture that
flighty smile__________________________________________on your face
like a game _________________________________________ a bounding
race across____________________________________ the landscape
who are you________________________________trying to  overtake?

You know how to ___________________________give a spectacular show
I am in ambient awe______________________that I should even 
get to know that our_____________________escapade should 
continue unabated a ___________________wild ride across 
—————————- the countryside

That even if it _______________________________comes smashing in 
for a landing_______________________________you will have given
me the most ________________________________ exhilarating experi-
ence  in this ________________________________scurrilous life

My Storm Maiden

My elusive lost love, I wait for you by my window.

Once you’ve adjusted your mindset so that you are constantly on the lookout for the Muse’s messages, letting yourself be in tune with the flow of creativity throughout the universe, you will see little gifts all around. Inspiration becomes a way of life; just as much as trauma processing and writing therapy, it becomes the balance and the light in the dark.

I got this shot when it had been raining and snowing all day for a few days straight. There was a short break, and I looked up at the window and saw a face in the trees. I had to get a picture of it, and once I had the picture, I had to write a poem about it. Then, once I had the poem and was putting together the newsletter, I wasn’t satisfied with the picture; it was pretty blurry, so I went into the AI art generator and threw the picture in with a prompt. I was finally happy with the above result.

My Storm Maiden

My elusive lost love, I wait for you by my window.

Lightning flashed as the hailstones smashed and torrents splashed against the rattling windows and doors. Startled, I screamed, dropping my favorite crystal tea cup, shards of clear Czech crystal skittering across the barren wood floor of white pine, well-worn. As I kneeled to retrieve the pieces of wet glass, the storm raged on, and the window above me lit with a double flash. Suddenly, I saw her, the Maiden of Storms; I knew my love had finally returned.

Dropping back to the floor, the shards fracture further; as if in a trance, I beelined directly for the door. Grasping the handle, releasing the bolt, insensible of any danger, or the wet, or the cold, I freed the door. Letting it swing wide, a hole was borne in the thin wood paneling; the force with which the door blew forth was staggering, generating a pop like a car misfiring. Dashing forward, I exited my once cozy cabin with a smile and a glazing glare. Wearing naught but my long white gown and robe, a specter I blew in the gale, pale arms around my face and head, protecting it from whipping branches like a halo in the dark.

Without dramatic backlighting, her visage had dissipated. I ran barefoot through the brush and snow, feeling nothing but air. The only objective discovering my calling, finding my Maiden of Storms in the gnarled branches. I heard her voice on the howling winds; I felt the hailstones pelting me, a physical reminder of her icy perfection. Icicles like talons broke on my face as I bounded, her elusive touch, as we danced through the night; my last.

Now we dance on clouds, whispering secrets into the wind. My only love, my icy grey Storm Maiden. A mortal tragedy occurred the day she went away; I counted the wretched sunny days. Resenting all the disrespectful sunbathing laughers and fine day sayers. I waited years, tucked away, for my Maiden of Storms to return and take me to her snowbound lair. Not a single soul could stop me; no chains could tether me, and I would slip any earthly bindings to wisp away when her call came my way, my force of nature, my Stormy Lady.

I guess the moral of the story here is that creativity is like an amazing chocolate chip cookie; as soon as you get one taste, you will be on the prowl for a glass of milk and so much more.

At the beginning of this month, I resumed writing my “Muse Calling” articles, which I am posting to Patreon. Still, as this is the final week of February, and this newsletter is Muse-centric, I will also send you my March Inspiration Holler article as your additional content this week. I am sorry I felt too poorly last week to get you an extra article; I hope you weren’t disappointed.

Until Next week,

K.B. Silver

The affiliate links in this week's newsletter take you to bookshop.org, where you can buy books better. Bookshop.org ensures local bookstores get a cut instead of driving them out of business like Amazon. I also provided a link to Amazon in case you have everything set up there and like the convenience.