Poems by Meg Mack by Margaret Mack - HTML preview

CALL TO THE MUSE

Of what shall I write when I wake at night,
Now that my love is put to flight?
Shall I never write again, or shall I write a sad refrain That tells a lie, of lost love’s pain?
Will ideas come of any kind,
Now that he’s not on my mind?

Was e’en my Golden Angel true? E’en Goldilocks a story, Writ to amuse and give me glory? Was he excuse to fall in love? How many songs of love are writ to loves that men dream of? Should I invent a lover new to compose my music to? Will inspiration come to me if his existence isn’t true?

Grandma told me on her knee a word that’s very wise: Art is beauty, beauty truth, and true beauty lies
In the eye of the beholder. You must never compromise. So even when true beauty lay in telling lies,
I wrote impassioned songs of love, of love that was denied.

When ugliness is fact, then is it true? But is truth ever ugly, or is the true issue That we cannot see the thing that could be If only we would dare to remedy
The malady?

“Goldilocks” is a planet that is hypothetical.
Perhaps the love that I invented is just as ethical. As scientists have theorized a planet men may live on, I invented for myself a lover for my situation,
One with faults and virtues, not a perfect man by half, But one whom I could play with, quarrel with, and laugh.

Is that not what Christians tend to do with Jesus?
Except that they don’t bed him, and he’s perfect, and displeases Of so many things they do that life is robbed of pleasure. My Goldilocks was a brighter star by any measure. Was it madness to invent him to rescue me, Prince Charming? Psychiatrists don’t find Christianity alarming.

Perhaps I’ll invent another lover to console me, Who’ll be the man I want, and worthy of my poetry. Or perhaps I’ll change my tune from the amour. After all, there’s other things that life’s worth living for. But I shan’t write in riddles plain men can’t understand. I shall write for everyman, not just the academe. I shall never write of decomposing things,
Except decay that smells of earth, and of renewing things. I shall not write of anguish, of nightmare, strife and pain, Unless it is the truth of battles fought in vain,
Where the saving grace of ruth, and some compassion Would end it all at last, and save a suffering nation.

I shall not write of dark despair except to give men hope, To show them there’s a better way; that one can always cope. I’ll only write of grief and loss to map what I have found In finding that there is no loss: my loved ones still are round.

I’ll write of aftermath of rain, and creeks that burble by Past wooded lanes where magpies sing,
Rain drips from trees, and curlews cry.
I’ll write of soft gold light of dawn breaking through grey cloud, Across the bay where islands still are wrapt in misty shroud.

I’ll write fond memories of those I’ve loved and who have gone, Who for a short time in my life were like the light of dawn, Who like the aftermath of rain still give me cause to live, The joy they brought into my life the greatest treasure they could give.