The Muse and Lisa by Sandra Horn

Yesterday morning, my husband woke up from a particularly vivid dream in which he was driving a traction engine. He had no clue about what might have triggered it. His conclusion: ‘My brain has a mind of its own!’ Oh yes, Papa Freud! The brain/the Muse is a funny old duck. Capriciousness isn’t in it.

 Sometimes walking wakes the Muse up, especially in a special place, like the salt marsh at Keyhaven, which I’ve written about before. There’s something about the rhythm of the movement and the air in the surroundings…but it’s never predictable and can never be forced. Sometimes there’s an out-of-the-blue inspiration that doesn’t seem to relate to anything. Sometimes a long fallow period that can’t always be accounted for either. Thank goodness I now have the inestimable luxury of writing for pleasure rather than trying to earn my living by it (although, in fact, I never did. It was always the jam in the sandwich rather than the bread). Now, we are giving books away as fast as we can to try to get past the ridiculous situation where I just about earn enough to cover the accountant’s fee! My main income from writing is from the sales at Heligan, and if there ever was a joyful moment of pure inspiration it was seeing the Mud Maid for the first time. Suddenly, I knew why she was asleep and how she got there. Magical.

More often than not, though, inspiration is absent. The Muse packs her bags without warning and goes away without leaving a forwarding address. Try perspiration? Sometimes in the past, taking up a challenge has been fruitful. I worked through the 52 poems book by the excellent Jo Bell and was able to produce s few reasonable poems. For a recent writing challenge, a poem about Spring, I managed to invoke Persephone (again!) in an attempt to find something different to say about it:

Spring

The ferry cleaves the mist.

She steps ashore, uncertain of her footing.

Hands raised to shield her dark-adapted eyes.

She’s taller, surely. Pallid. Etiolated.

Now she must learn this world, her other world, again.

Let it be gentle, gradual, give her time;

mild rains, mild airs, slow dawns,

long dusks, the measured increment of days.

Banish with song the silent realm of ghosts –

come, blackbird, woodlark, mistle thrush.

Let unfolding leaf-bud, snowdrop, primrose,

summon her sweetly to light and life.

I shared this with my writing group, which includes historical novelist  Elisabeth (Lisa) Conway, author of A Strand of Gold, set in Singapore in the time of Raffles, and a stunningly good read!  Lisa's  response was to send me a link to the Pandora myth. I wasn’t able (so far, at least) to get my head round it as a subject for a poem; it’s a tricky one, Zeus giving the box to Prometheus in revenge for the fire-stealing, knowing that his wife wouldn’t be able to resist opening it. That says a lot about Zeus and his misogyny, I think! However, while I was pondering the implications, Eve popped into my head. I’ve already made one poem about her and the personal freedom, with all its risks and joys, her disobedience afforded her, but another thought came about what leaving the Garden of Eden meant for all those who came after:

Eve II

The snake was, of course, a red herring.

The real, the irrestistible temptation

was the commandment, do not eat this fruit.

An invitation to defiance.

Eve thought: what if I do?

She needed to find out. She picked the fruit,

she took a bite, and freed us all, forever,

from the tyranny of perfection,

the threat of immortality.

 

 So the Muse did a knight’s move , a sideways hop from Pandora to Eve, and that was it for a while. A time of Nothing. I’ve tried a Chapbook challenge – 30 poems in 30 days – and so far have three scrappy offerings only fit for the recycling bin.

Once, while I was sitting in a miserable heap (I’ve lost it, I’ll never write again, etc) watching the moon rise through the still-bare trees over the road, suddenly there was an unexpected item in the brain department:  

Here’s the Midwinter Moon

Snared in a bare-branched oak.

Easing free, easing free.

Rising up. And up.

Up to her zenith.

Turning the tides as the year turns.

 

I shared it with the writing group, having nothing else to bring, and Lisa responded by sending me a time-lapse photograph of an August moon – the blood moon – soaring over Stonehenge. It’s absolutely stunning but, alas, it failed to stir the creative juices.

Lisa didn’t give up, however. She is also a very skilled batik-maker and sent me this image, thinking the poem could go on it. It’s gorgeous but clearly not midwinter (or a blood moon) so it needed a different verse. This one did not come so easily:

Here’s the Lambing Moon.

Daylight has lingered

 to watch her rise,

up through the trees

up over the hill,

lending her light

to the quickening Earth

 

 

  

Thank you, dear Lisa!

 

It’s not quite right yet but perhaps the Muse will wake up and lend a hand?  So far, she’s mute. It’s wait-and-see-and-hope time. Again.

 

PS I invented Lambing Moon as the official names for the full moon month by month really didn’t work.