O, Muse divine! guide thou my soul and pen,
inspire me to divine song and rhythm,
to sing tales of Greek gods and thewy men,
now carved in ancient, history-bending prism.
Grant me Apollo's sky-searing chariot,
so like a scorching sun that sears the earth,
I may ascend to heights of poet's fame,
in Mount Parnassus's sacred, watery hearth.
But if divine impulse thou must withhold,
then may my measure's rhyme not be forsaken,
and instead may thy grace for me unfold,
so words of gold and gems be not untaken.
O Muse! Let me drink from the Pierian springs,
so thy sweet strains might move both gods and kings.
Who taught the Shakespeare of a prosody
Or a book of words comes and coalesced
In every verse of Shelley romance and tragedy
'To a lady,with a guitar'escaped the summit of breast
For every physicians why the feather decents
For the every poets how they flutters
Not a hedonist but prophetic soul of fancy presents
And humns and shored on their mossy cutters
Kings and folks,sailers and merchant
Brethren and sistren speaks of bard of Avon
Thracian Orpheus wept in Shelley's mastery of poetic ardent
Therein the sullen dorado scowl in river of Devon
Ever hoped to greet mine those pierian spring
The pen snug in because mine thumbs are ageing
If the Muse bolts from me, I'll love her more
still and pen heartfelt songs of forlorn rhymes;
yet, I'll still wilt within internal climes
of gloom from her forsaking me before
I empty her spirit, for I've sometimes
gone to cruel lengths to dash her gentle heart.
So, having erred, the consequence for art,
and ingenious meters, thus makes betimes
my Muse's faithfulness to then depart
(from me). To shortly beg her forgiveness,
I take my medication, lower my stress:
renew my efforts to make a fresh start.
For my patient Muse, a Pierian empress,
inspires my dark, bipolar mind's fitness!
MY JURY
Representation of my Pierian spring,
Attorney of my indelible ink,
An old woman does not get tired
in the dance she knows best;
Life's court sent forth for my jury:
Evidence speaks louder than doubts -
When a child eat a palm fruit
his teeth shows evidence.
Pen is mightier than guns
But my ink is as costly as blood.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © May, 2020.
...the birds having nothing on you
each tasty morsel drips
deflowering of night
and day
where sun has chose to stay
close
your lips to mine
piercing the aire
beheld in Pierian time
kindled and caressed in kiss
late night hours waved
as arousals arrive
and reside
touches pulsed by rhyme
symphonically conduced
more than mere interludes
that never conclude
stillness our tune
ignition the flame
morning whispers
silent into eyes of Jade
hesitating, she breathes once more
meandering Elysian fields of gold
To Lesley do I owe a big debt
No more over verse will I ever sweat
Reading her nuanced advice between the lines
My motivation to versify sharply declines
It has become clear to me that my rotten rhyme
Is so very close to being a humanitarian crime.
So,Ms Duncan,to you must I convey my thanks
That no longer will I invest in poetry banks.
Now must I banish my obsession with a final farewell
And consign all future thoughts of poetry to the fires of hell.
Without me,may all you genuine poets flourish
And your love of poetry always and ever nourish.
With a truly sad heart I do lay down my pen
And I will not demean Parnassus ever again
And yet who can ever be fully sure and rightly know
When the Pierian spring through one will once again flow?
What can I do when the spring runs dry?
Words refuse to come,images die
In the desert of the mind,only drought
No oasis in sight,there's none about
The searing sun of silence allows for no shade
Where the dues of poetry must be fully paid
In this harsh light there is no chiaroscuro
No verse of any kind can I beg or borrow
But tired I must trudge on, bruised,broken and weary
Until I find the land of poetry near me.
Prayers to the aloof Muses I must invoke
To release me from this arid desert's grim yoke
If they would but kindly choose to hear and listen
My Pierian spring might once again glisten
O Cinna man,where you gonna run to?
O Cinna man,where are you gonna hide?
What's with poetry which makes us all blue?
Your verses we can no longer abide
Most of us labour on the foothills of Parnassus
Being no more than dross among the gold
We are but pygmies beside any Colossus
Yet we want our poems to applause unfold
Our thirst we cannot slake from the Pierian spring
Our dryness burns deep into every scroll
'Tis no wonder that our poetry does not sing.
Why do we bother our heads to write at all?
It must grieve the bounteous Muses
Who long to hear the song of songs
Their gifts they do not refuse us
So why do we so often get it wrong?
O, Tenebrous
O, interminable tenebrous
ev'r bewildering,
haunting, taunting
my incessant Pierian Spring!
McCuen Copyright October 2008
Late at night
Losing all sense of time
Caught in the web's
Ghostly glow
A glimpse of an ad
During a sip of ruby red
A muse was born
(Amusin' illusion)
To tempt the Melpomene in me.
Dionysus let slip the flights of fancy.
A flirtation began.
It was love at first sight
As I drank deep of the Pierian spring
But my love she doth often unrequite.
It passeth all understanding.
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.