Last week I participated with four other writers in a panel at the Associated Writing Programs conference in Seattle. The title of the panel was "Calling the Muse," and panelists (Laura Kvasnosky, Zu Vincent, Debby Dahl Edwardson, Kiara koenig and I) were asked to address not only the idea of a "Muse" in general, but how a writer moves from inspiration to application. In my opinion, if you are out in the world, and you are curious and attentive, then the Muse has done her/his/its job, and the rest is up to you. I found a short poem to read by the late William Stafford which basically says what I had to say, but more economically and elegantly, and I thought Poetry Friday readers might like to see it, too - so here it is!
When I Met My Muse
I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.
The. Poetry Friday round-up today is being hosted Margaret over at Reflections on the Teche
Head over there to see what other people have posted.