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.
i love this short - and unusual - poem because of its tenderness. the artist and his muse meet, the artist mesmerised by his muse's chiming voice and gentle sway, and also her impossible beauty.
she becomes his 'way of looking at things.' she lives within his consciousness.
as he takes her hand (courage!) she becomes real to him.