As the coach and facilitator of the Creative Muse Course, I planned the “Depressed Poets Society” which was held at a funky little art cafe. All of the participant muses dressed in black, and sighed and ‘woes me’d” and had a most gloriously funny time.
Of course, I felt somewhat obligated to write poetry for this event, since I’d planned it and all… poetry is not my forte. But by poem 4, I’ve reconsidered that.
Plummets the optimism
There’s no man in my fridge handing out drinks
KFC on TV
Cuz sick attracts the sick. Did it make me sick?
The world is a trick
I have rules that don’t include puke
And do include rhymes.
The rules are broken.
Please know I am this kind of poet: “-a-crappy-poet-by-choice” and having spent the day sick helped me to write this. It is certainly in fun and in farce…and that lifted my sick little spirit. These do represent a perspective that many might take. Life. It really is about perspective.
Channel 6 lands at 24
Waiting waiting past 120 to see what’s on the only stations I have
The lower ones… lowly non-prestigious ones.
Waiting to see what crap is on at 8.
Les Miserables… miserable. That works.
Why are they all lined up in front of a stand of mics?
Why is there 3 giant TV screens as backdrops?
Why are they disappointing me with this shamble of a setting?
Why aren’t they moving?
Is this some twisted genre of musical theatre meant to make me miserable?
Voices that I can’t do even 1 % at my best in the shower.
Costumes that I can’t touch but for a gown I get to soon wear and it is not mine.
A solo that could rock the world.. but with 40 abandoned mics cluttering her space.
A friend brings camomile, yogurt and ginger beer,
But she cannot be bothered to stay
And watch TV with me.
But then… I took pieces from a novel in progress and turned it into poetry of sorts. (below) What an exercise in ‘trimming’ words! And after that, I really did write a powerful piece that resulted in a great release for me. And it is so darn personal, I couldn’t publish it here!
The end of a day not long after he died.
I saw me.
a mere breakable thin shell
barely able to hold its form.
a billion pieces of broken glass and bits of mirrors at my feet.
An empty shell, a void.
So many miniscule pieces of glass they might just as well be swept away.
impossible to reassemble every shattered belief, every wiped out hope.
No way to reconnect the shards of mirrors that were once joy.
I am shattered. I am broken.
(and just so you know… this tragic event led to some pretty amazing magic.. and that is what the novel really is about)
Go ahead, write some crappy depressed poetry as if you ‘have to’ get it done for an event… you might be surprised by what your shadow muse will inspire and /or help you release!