Inspiration

The spark of creativity is a moody creature, and this is the reason I swig humbly offer libations of wine and eat pizza rolls sacrifice virgins to the indifferent cosmos for the gift of others who heed its call when my muse is out of town on a raging bender. Sorry Erato, that was you calling the porcelain phone, was it not? Now I'm thinking of Roland, after so much bloodshed, blowing his horn at last. Sure, he fought valiantly and with honor and all those other medieval buzzwords, but at the end of the day, he got chopped into teeny, tiny pieces.

Sort of how I feel when I try to write.

Yeah, there's a finished work lying on the table in front of me, but goddamn, is it terrible. Perhaps I should find me a nice, shiny, sharpened broadsword and get to hacking, you hack. Laugh, damn you, laugh.

Anyway, while tossing the bloody, versified chunks into the freshly dug (imaginary, bien sûr) grave and debating which musical piece or work of art I should conjure up in order to spark the creative process, I remembered a painting done by the talented susan -- she tells quite interesting stories, in addition to being an artiste -- that I enjoyed very much, subsequently attempting to write a poem using said painting as my source. Whether it captured a fraction of, or one view of, the work's essence is not for me to decide. The finished product, as you will see, pales in comparison to her wonderful watercolor, but I hope the act itself will transcend any inherent flaws in the lines below.

La danseuse de ciel

Deep light waxes long in brilliant fire
for flora to bloom, blessed by winter’s grace
to display the dawn smiling in a face,
and the storming of a new desire.

Verdant days stray, playing a simple suite,
catching colors in voicing harmony.
Fools and fiends struck by natural sorcery,
worn down by the thunder of their deceit.

Bright dancer, descend from your ancient throne,
changing violet shades to thickest black.
Disappearing sight finds at last the track
where waning, disheartened gloom has since flown

under the cover of your silvered strands
bathing the petals of these wretched hands.