Where does the muse dance in delight?
She dances not with me tonight.
She sits in sorrowed shadow
In her visit here with me,
Lamenting dear lost loved ones,
Lost to eternity.
So often she's abandoned me,
A creature of complexity,
Some days she's clothed a saint
in white,
Or buttercup yellow, a sheer delight
Now she visits, robed all in blues,
So colorful, my moody muse
The power of poetry
the world is our Muse
No part unimportant
no win and no lose
Alive and unending
she waits to be born
Inside what we’ve written
with joy — and forlorn
From Everest to Mariannas
her messages lie
Above and below us
to welcome inside
Reborn with each musing
her power to save
inside every passage
— from birth to the grave
(The New Room: September, 2026)
I asked my muse softly,
"What words do you have today?"
She winked from the margins
and whispered, “Start this way…”
In the misty dawn,
Gently rising hope
Praising, a poem
Written by the sun
Who has melted night
With her still beauty
THE CARNIVAL'S WIRE
She had fallen
She had tired
The haze and heat
Through hoops of fire
She held her breath
Her foot gave way
Feather by feather
She tumbled away
The crowd beneath
The high and narrow
The shouts, the cheers
A kissed thrown flower
One foot poise
Balance the other
She had fallen
The carnival's wire
THE SEVENTH VEIL
She danced upon the seventh veil
A breeze as yet unnamed
Her sacrifice, to no avail
I let her slip away
Now at my feet
Lay seven veils
A sin for every day
I find no ship, needs seven sails
A breeze as yet untamed
The Muse You Give
I searched for her in Delphi's sacred hush,
in Homer's sea, in every star above,
in ancient scrolls, in dawn's first golden blush,
and found instead a smaller kind of love.
She came the evening you sat down with me,
no lyre in your hands, no laurel crown,
just kindness poured as simply as the tea,
and time that gently laid my burdens down.
You asked me how I was, and stayed to hear.
You did not hurry me, or count the cost.
And something woke that I had held in fear,
a small bright song I feared was long since lost.
So this, I learned, is the Muses' truest way:
not thundering from mountains, robed in flame,
but in a hand held out at close of day
that calls the weary poet by his name.
The elders said it long before my pen:
"A person is a person through the rest."
And every verse I offer, now and then,
is yours: the muse you gave, my grateful best.
Ndiyabulela, I give thanks, dear friend.
The muse you give is the muse that will not end.
The order of Light
is to experience
common Truth itself.
Language is not a perfect game —
more than the sum of things,
like moon, sky, centre, body, bed —
all the singing masters know.
Picture two lovers — wake
to hold the real world —
by body,
word by word;
Wild halos — their thought.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
For Gwen Harwood (1920–1995)
Who taught us that thought is surrounded by Light, and that Love holds the real and imagined world.
Blackout poetry extraction from the original poem —
“Thought is Surrounded by a Halo” by Australian poet Gwen Harwood (Brisbane, Queensland, Australia).
Floating across the ridges, gentle leaf
Soaring to new heights, despite the grief
Still, soft joy providing soul’s relief
Music in all its grace, autumn’s relief
Song as bright as sunshine in each leaf
This is the moment, pouring out its grief
Across the ridges, soundless edge of grief
Quiet prayers, in His presence is relief
Trees and hills, bound by each vibrant leaf
Every leaf, despite its grief, finds relief in Fall
“a heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation”
- by Uneeking Seeker
I burn your passion that’ll climb wildly as vine
In a steaming fountain from soul and mind
I’m hidden spark, deepest source to impel
Your inspirations through words, I’m always there.
Throbbing within you, ringing like chimes
Demanding rest, so stubborn sometimes
Still, my light generates power for a lifetime
I am that I am for creation of verses and rhymes.
Gift from Mightiest One who said, I Am Who I Am
Your guiding spirit, giving joy, extricating glums
I'm goddess of aesthetic expressions, so divine
I am who I am, your muse from your heart inclines.
Dear Poetry,
We met when I was just a child,
Still full of dreams, a little wild.
But then time held me in your grasp,
So many thrills, my soul forever clasp.
We found each other on summer nights,
Unburdened by plans or tempting delights.
Life took us over some slips and turns,
When my spirit knew its deepest concerns.
We knew the amazing of autumn’s mist,
Such love when September and October kissed.
Joy would tremble inside our soul,
Playing a song that would make us whole.
We once died in the arms of a prayer,
Feelings blessed by praise to share.
In the wind, I felt the breath of grace,
Needless to say, you – time wouldn’t erase.
We knew each other when things were good
And, with you inside, I always felt understood.
Melancholic, excited or elated – I always knew
You were the music that felt so fresh and new.
We wouldn’t believe that our story would end,
You were the answer to a prayer that God would send.
I’m thankful for your friendship, one so very rare,
Because of you, my friend, I know how much I care.
Did you hear about our friend, Glenn Hughes,
who is Robert James Liguori's muse?
Though he's set to retire,
may he ever inspire,
as he sure fills a big pair of shoes.
Your gaze makes me feel a lot of
Emotions, makes me trust in love
That’s not true for my silly wish.
In reality forbidden.
Your gentle touch has some magic
In it; but the feeling is tragic.
Movements done by you are so gish.
In reality forbidden.
The sun demands the waking world look back,
But silver doors slide open in the dark;
An uncracked stone, a vessel kept intact,
Reveals a void where hidden planets arc.
From salted depths, the ancient spirits rise,
A bridge of silver scales across the blue,
While silent strangers watch from foreign skies,
And cosmic chaos turns to order true.
Upon the sand I stand without alarm,
A quiet anchor in the shifting night,
Enfolded in a grand, celestial charm,
To watch the hidden world ascend to light:
We are not lonely keepers of the stone;
The myths are real, and we are not alone.
Candide Diderot. '26
visions and thoughts from a lucid dream - 11/08/26...
The eyes fall heavy, dropped like iron weights,
The crimson seal breaks open on the page.
A silent heart decodes its darker fates,
As lips unclose without a smile to gauge.
Out through the mouth, a stark emission flies -
A gasp of feathers leaves a bitter trace.
Black words like crows sweep through the quiet skies,
To peck the margins of a narrow space.
No whisper marks the blood the poets bleed,
Dark mulberry stained upon the sacred font.
I dip the quill to satisfy the need,
And trace the only baptism that we want.
Our drawn out paths were meant to run divine;
We cast the runes and walk the crooked line.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
Muse Categories
Definition | What is Muse in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
ponder, ruminate, brood, consider, deliberate, feel, percolate, moon, roll, reflect, contemplate, meditate, revolve, weigh, cogitate, speculate, think, turn over, be lost in thought, build castles in air, chew over, mull over, puzzle over, think over,