Lisbon Earthquake, 1755 by Granger‘Dying Muse’ and Other Poetry by Ann Christine Tabaka The Society June 3, 2017 Beauty, Poetry, The Environment 11 Comments Dying Muse Not everyone will survive The muse has sung her last song The end is about to arrive It has been following us all along The forest is groaning in pain She sheltered her creatures with love Her labors were all given in vain Of her plight she knew not thereof The muse is now silent and sad So let us stop for a moment and cry She pines for the beauty she once had As Earth breathes her last mournful sigh Whisper Beyond the very depth of your soul Lies a place where truths are hidden Where thoughts whisper louder than words And speaking them is forbidden There emotions play hide and seek Among the cobwebs of your sorrow But love whispers from deep within Bringing with it the hope of tomorrow … Can you hear the whisper? Born in Wilmington Delaware in the early 1950’s, Ann Christine Tabaka has been writing poems and rhymes since her Junior High years. She was a Fine Arts Major in college. Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ classicalpoets.org with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.” Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) 11 Responses James Sale June 3, 2017 Beautiful – and the Muse will return! Reply Christine Tabaka June 3, 2017 Thank you so much James. I pray that you are correct, and the Muse returns. Reply James Sale June 3, 2017 Yes, I think so – for how can you kill the spirit of life? Keep writing such fine poetry – and check out part 1 of my 4 part article on the Muse on this very website! Part 2 published later this month. G. M. H. Thompson June 3, 2017 “The wind crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.” Reply Christine Tabaka June 3, 2017 Thank you G.M.H. Reply Pegie Whitaker June 3, 2017 Oh, so beautiful! And a sad reflection of current killing in what once was our country. But I do hear the whisper… Reply Christine Tabaka June 3, 2017 Thank you so much Pegie. You are so kind. Reply David Hollywood June 3, 2017 Beautiful melancholy. Reply Christine Tabaka June 3, 2017 Thank you so much David, it is meant to be. Reply Satyananda Sarangi June 5, 2017 As beautiful as it could have got, ma’am. The thoughtfulness and the rhythm weave a musicality. Hence, a few lines on ‘ Dying Muse’ : Yonder where the corpse of muse does decay, The spirit of art hovers round its head; Dreadful scenes though their vile intent convey, Strands of hope bind us to an unknown thread. Heedless of fables, human minds pretend And succumb to melancholy’s frail might; Somewhere, veiled fibres are woven to mend Scars gifted to us by the gloom of night. The muse thus flies far off into the sky, It is homed in heaven and does not die. © 2017 Satyananda Sarangi All rights reserved. More power to thy pen, ma’am. Reply Chris Tabaka June 7, 2017 That is beautiful Satyananda. Thank you. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.