Tuesday, March 31, 2009

The Muse and the Poet: Part I

The Muse and the Poet:
Muse's Monologue

Today he came home sooner than before. His face flushed with excitement, his curly black hair disheveled as he ran. He looked about with a wild look in his eyes, a wild fire in his blood. I have never seen him like this. This way, the way he is now.

“I have found her!” he cries to the empty courtyard. “I have found the girl of my dreams.”

What a dagger to my heart. That he would say something so ruthless and cruel with so much joy. But I shall wait and see. Maybe this is but a passing folly. One of Cupid’s foolish arrows gone astray and easily healed. But what if it isn’t?

The days pass and all he does is dwell on her, thinking of her constantly, talking of her constantly, even daring to dream about her only. For years, years I have served him. And now he does this. And now he would use me, merely as a tool for his own purposes.

But that’s all we muses are, aren’t we? We exist as tools for humanity. Tools for them to shape their love and then to be thrown aside and forgotten. Never a thank you. Never a good word. They even have the audacity to take credit for our work. Without our inspiration they would be nothing!

Yet, there he sits, with stylus in hand and block before him. He is begging me, pleading with all his soul. All he wants is a simple poem. A poem of spring time and flowers and the things that so sweetly grow. Should I give it to him? Will it satisfy the greed of this strange girl? Well in the very least, if I give it to him, and he gives it to her, it shall allow me to read her heart. Being a muse does have a few advantages.

A simple poem, a modest poem, but one that would make any girl’s heart flutter. This will do, at least for now, so that I can look at her heart. And what a heart. A shadow, conniving twisted heart. A malicious and sulpherous heart bent on nothing but slavery and dominion and the twisting of the hearts of men. I am so repulsed that I grow sick at what I see in her.

How does he miss it? How does he not see it so clearly? In what she says? In what she does? It cannot be missed, even by an imbecile, and yet he is smart and wise and witty as well. No, then it must be true. No stray arrow but a well placed barb of Cupid’s desire. He is truly in love with this… this heart of darkness.

It hurts. I don’t know why, but it does. What is this pain I feel so deep in me, that the very marrow drains from my bones? Could it be… no, that is foolishness. But what then, what causes my entire being to grow so heavy and makes my heart stoop to the ground? It must be… yes, the pain, the throbbing, beating pain, it can only be… am I? Am I in love?

Yes. Yes! I am! I am in love! I am in love with this mad, genius, beautiful, stubborn poet! And that is why it hurts. It pains my heart that the one I love… that he would love another. Oh, its not the labor that causes my wrath to grow. No, if he would love me for it, I would give him a hundred poems. No, but for who the labor is made. For he does not dream of me.

And yet, yet he shall require another poem of me. What will I do? What is there to do? Either refuse him or give him another. Those are the only options before me. Yet one would be worse than the other. They are both abhorrent and unfriendly to my soul.

I love him, I do, and will not let her have him. If I refuse and give him no more poems, she will soon grow weary of him. And then she shall shun him and no more shall she threaten my happiness! I shall refuse him because I love him!

But yet, I love him, and if I refuse and he is shunned, the pain and grief that he will experience may easily kill him and definitely me. No, I cannot harm him. I cannot steal his happiness away. If it means his joy, then I shall give him another poem, because I love him.

Oh Cruel Fates! Why mock ye, me so! No, I will not leave him and I will not be the breaker for his heart. If only there was a way for him to stop loving her. If only there was some method to make him see her vile and fetid heart. That’s it! Her heart must be revealed. I shall reveal her heart.

He comes today and begs another poem of me. He sees me and yet all he sees is a tool. No other man has seen a muse as clearly as he. And yet he sees nothing. He wants a poem and I shall give him one. One that all men would praise. And indeed he is pleased. Good, go now, little poet. Go and take your poem to her whom you call beloved.

He goes, even now in my minds eye’s I can see it. He will read it to her. She will, at first be enraptured by it. But then, as the honey is still upon her lips, it shall turn to bitter, burning, venom. For though the poem is crafted so that all men approve, unto all women it is the gravest of insults and most horrid to hear. And she shall tell him so. And he shall see her for who she truly is.

Ahhh! The pain in my chest, it deepens and widens. Is love such a cruel master? Is love such a horrid fate. Even now, I feel as if I were dying, lying here in my poet master’s chamber. Why does love burn so hot? Why does love crush like lead?

He enters. His face is red again, but this time from anger. He has seen her face, her true face. He as seen the light and now has returned in righteous indignation. He sees me. And in his eyes there is a light. A moment of realization, as the man who realized he has found a long lost ring upon his own finger.

“What’s the matter?” he must see my pain.

“I am dying. I gave you a poem to reveal her wicked heart to you, my love. But it has cost me greatly. My oath, as a guardian of love, was to ever cherish and nurture sweet love. And if I were to break it, then so also I would be broken.”

He speaks, but his words sound distant. Far off as an echo in the breeze. This is not love. This is death. Why am I dying? I am an eternal muse? Why am I dying like a common human? But still, death is better than to be separated from my beloved. The light grows dimmer. The world feels so cold. So very, very cold. His face is fading and I hear my heart beat one last time. And then there is silence. Oh, sweet silence. Cover me from the pain of his broken heart.

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