Short Erato Poems

Erato left me
Alone—why did she go—where?
Too many poets...

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a multiverse on my mind
I touch the leaves of spring
summer responds by jealousy...

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Of all the flowers
i met on the way
only your dainty bossom
showed me the court of day,

And that accounts 
for the harp today i blew
and of all smiles there are
only yours i found was true....

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How endless seems the night sweet hydromel of mine 

Morpheus, Erato and all the muses intertwine

A wind of amber and musk from your mouth escapes

Emerge from your nebulous dream my love, my kiss awaits...

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For a few days, do not look for me,  my dear friends

Among the so many good poets of the Soup to find

For with my greatest love, Erato, the Muse of poetry 

Arrangements I have made, for a little while to hide!










(c) Demetrios Trifiatis
         16 June 2016...

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my hand
on a keyboard
span an octive and

a one
note over
but this poem

is
not
written

by or
for the
Muse Euterpe

in fact
one would
think mine are

inspired
by Erato but
MI Musa's name

is the
Greek honey
bee so named

Melissa
never
to be

for
got
ten...

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Erato

Each of the nine Muses
Endeavor to inspire.
Erato, lyre in hand,
Engages with men's minds,
Elegantly with words ...
Each phoneme, each pattern
Encourages lyrics....

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Erato leads the mind right into the zone
To look for the sweet nectar sought by the bee
As it fills its sacs with light, colour and tone
Heavy winged ,replete ,it returns to its tree
There its delicate imagery to hone
Ere it is ready to leave and be set free
It's in that moment a poem comes  alive
Emerging fully developed from its hive...

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I’d go to her for soulful inspiration,
But she would just seductively refuse. 
She wasn’t of a mind to be my lover.
So, I resolved to fashion her my muse.

I’d splattered oil on canvas, in a short while,
Arranged the scene with colors meant to rhyme.
Not striking, but she’ll know herself in profile.
I dubbed it, Dame Erato in Her Prime....

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Why silence, Erato, old friend,
Is there a thought you wish to transcend

You call me a poet, how can that be
For my quill be a twig and parchment a tree

I paint of morning, my hopes lie ahead
My words unsure, I merely sense my tread

Yet, Erato, you say rhyme will give fire
Rendering visions with the brush of desire

May canvas be my yearn, verse my plea
That passions of life e'er be ardent in me...

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I'll tell you what my muse, Erato,
Once on a time revealed to me.
What she said so filled my head
With a simple truth ne'er writ nor read:
"Don't pursue lines of lofty rhymes
Designed to stand the test of time
And create a space wherein to place your poet's legacy.
Verse will endure, profane or pure,
If it's not meant to preach or vent.
Poets have no claim to wealth or fame.
The solitary aim and purpose of a poem
Is poetry."...

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As I slumber
Deep in desirable dreams
She comes 
With lyre in hand 
Her song is purest poetry
Gifted by Apollo
And drawn by Zeus’ hand 
O’ sweet melody
She serenades my soul
Whispering verses
Still longing to be made manifest
Her fragrance compels me
To dream her beauty
And inspires greatness
In corners of minds
Only muses can occupy
Daintily she places myrtle
Around my bed
And rouses me to dance 
In her glorious creation
O’ sweet Erato...

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Erato whispered in Man’s ears
poetic words that he could hear;
they are ancient as Greece itself
which became Man’s only real wealth.
Aeschylus heard her wordy waves
that sparked his tragedian plays.
Her soft words waft Man’s atmosphere
producing a William Shakespeare.
Today her words still ride the wind
murmur in the ears that listen
by few of the plurality
who pen or type their poetry.
Her words have yet to reach my ears
I’ll write in silence I can hear....

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