When the Muse is Recalcitrant

I actually wanted to use an adjective a bit more harsh than "recalcitrant," but I'm trying to pretend that I am cultured and have reached a point in my life where I can be forgiving, diplomatic, and kind.

None of those adjectives is accurate, certainly, but if I'm being kind to the Muse, I might as well be kind to myself.

I tried last night to draw the Muse cloak-like around me, conjuring the best I could with a bottle of Liquid Sunshine Blond Ale brewed by the Hoppy Brewing Company. The Muse, though, was happy to let me drink alone. And, having spent about 4 hours back-country skiing yesterday, I was sound asleep not long after the bottle was empty. I was, frankly, exhausted, which I gladly enjoyed if only because exhaustion for once trumped insomnia.

Early this morning, then, after an invigorating (if brief) bike ride, I sat on the sofa with a cup of tea, perused the Sunday paper, and began leafing through various volumes of poetry. I am reading Passage to Juneau and Ansel Adam's autobiography now, neither of which inspires much creativity. I was hopeful that my thin books of poems would hold something for me, for in addition to needing something creative to work on for personal reasons, I am also supposed to present a poem at next week's meeting of my writers group.

Hope, though, doesn't always float. I found some wonderful works from my favorite poets: Raymond Carver; Phil Levine; Stanley Kunitz. These guys!

And then I found this, a poem I first read (and memorized) maybe 25 years ago, written by William Stafford. [Note: you'll find much better discussion of poetry at "The Great American Pinup," which is linked from this site.]

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt--ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

I am not exactly sure of why I settled on Stafford's work, but I think it might be because I keep thinking about people--some who have "come in their slow way into my life"--I have known for a long time. Recently, for example, I made contact with someone I knew in high school. The contact was actually accidental, but I then bungled a reciprocal connection. I also recently dreamed of a friend, also from high school, who was the best man in my wedding, a man I have not spoken to in many (too many) years. And, finally, I have been thinking about another visit to my hometown in the Midwest, which I know is something I should not either consider or do.

As I read, as I looked for something to write about for this blog, I discovered a couple of things that might serve as material for the next couple of posts. We'll see.