Oh, Calliope

Oh, Calliope, I implore you. I need your inspiration, your guidance. Sing to me, my muse; guide my pen once more And fill my page with that gift which you bestow: The gift of words. Such lyrical, musical words that I adore—have adored, Since I first discovered the wonder and beauty of this art Through the marked lines of the greats before me. Homer, Shakespeare, Milton. I devoured their verse, those verbal paintings inscribed lifetimes before I breathed my first. My breathing comes now bated and in gasps each time—with each new poet I discover and devour, Hungry for more, in awe of each poet’s flawless grace, voice, style; The emotions they evoke from within me, the tears they bring to my eyes; I cannot get enough. Keats, Wilde, Yeats— I cherish their words, hold them in my mind, my heart. Byron, Shelley, Coleridge— I wish to emulate them, Borrow some of the beauty woven among their words And embroider it within mine. How can I compare with these greats poets? How can I imagine myself alongside Browning, Wordsworth, or Williams? Do I dare attempt competition when I am nothing in comparison? Oh, Calliope, I implore you, Why does my tortured mind even attempt these mediocre creations? Why do I bother with these ludicrous dreams? And yet, I cannot fight this compulsion, this desire—this need. To create. To write. To release these thoughts and feelings I have pent up inside me In the only way I know how. Oh, Calliope, I implore you, Never let me lose this drive. It is my passion, this desire to write. It is my everything: my soul, my life.