Too fine
The word
That was lust to him
As a gossamer knight he
Oh Howie tried
And true
Enough
Wading in silence
Only to peer
Parently from know wear
To meat
His every knead
Too fine
Word
Maid flesh
This is a poem about the role of the muse in writing poetry. On occasion, I exclaim, “Where does it come from?!” This is an indirect compliment to awe that the muse does, plus a certain humility on my part for feeling unable to take credit for awe of my work. For me, the creative process often includes the experience of both peak concentration and seeing something come from seemingly out of nowhere, no place for which I can give adequate account or testimony, except perhaps in a completed work. The creative process often entails both intense flow and an irresistible beguiling that on occasion may be mistaken for work. There have been more than a few times that I have been gloriously exasperated by the joyful wear of a relentless muse, for which I can only gleefully apologize. This poem employs a sexual metaphor to better reveal the palpability of the artist-muse relationship. Also, this poem climaxes with perhaps the most profound aspect of religious theology: incarnation, spirit imbuing flesh. In Christian sacred text, this is referred to as “The Word became flesh,” from John 1:14. That which is most ethereal — God, life, light — becomes that which is most palpable to humans on earth. These juxtaposed metaphors are similar to my description of writing poetry as the head and heart making love — which makes me simile. May your life be overflowing as your ineffable spirit is enfleshed in this world.
