If one could choose a muse, wouldn’t human nature choose Tiddalik*, that greedy frog sucking all water (giver of life) to himself? Creativity is a gluttonous thing, always wanting feeding... This is what I have become - embittered like a dandelion head, seeds blown off in wind or child’s fancy. Brown and frayed and shucked of grace, I nod here, jabbing muses in their belly buttons, accusing; seeing only men’s invention in these tricksy, fickle wraiths who ooze and shadow behind the ant-team precision of poetry’s lines. Stand up straight! And watch your seeds, claimed by breeze’s chance, to grow in love or weeds. Be the parent of your words until they are old and yellowed and withering in summer’s sun. Heed any irksome deeds they foster or what heroes they inspire; unlike our politicians, their double-tongued shiftiness shirking ownership like itchy clothes. Beansprout words shot up in daubs of cottonwool soaked in mistruth. Prickly pear words, short-sighted and long-living, their monstrous shapes degrading our country. I neither blame nor credit any muse but my own erratic brain, catching thoughts in random flow past my ears, or diving down burrows - the humid dankness of my intellectual summing. Oh yes, it’s a clumsy apparatus and I’m glad as anyone for beauty or anger to set me off, rolling down intuition's precarious slope. Ephemeral or torn, fragile or intransigent, glowing or malodourous it may be – I hold inspiration as my own and will die in the composting total of its history.
*Tiddalik features in a Creation Story from the Koorie people of southern NSW and Victoria. Please follow the link to find out more.
Written for Ingrid’s dVerse prompt “Who’s your Muse?”