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This poetry challenge comes from poet Roy E. Peterson: Provide a poem about your inspiring Muse. If you name a Muse, put it in a poet’s note at the bottom of your poem. If it is someone living, you need not reveal their name. For those who do not claim a Muse inspires them, you may write on mythical, historical, spiritual, or religious Muses who have inspired others. Post yours in the comments section below.

Here is my example:

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My Lady of Light

by Roy E. Peterson

I kneel down before my Lady of Light.
Her accolades shower my shoulders with praise.
No more in the dark woods shall wander this Knight.
The touch of her sword my honor repays.
A true heart by heaven has never been blessed
By just such an angel to love and adore.
The rose that I gave, to her bosom she pressed;
Fealty forever to her I have sworn.
My mission is, as a Knight-errant, to love,
Protect, and defend my Lady of Light,
To fight in the duels she would be proud of.
With sword strokes of justice, great evil I’ll smite.
Till Elysian Plains are brought into my view,
I’ll always be Champion, Knight-errant of you.

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Poet’s Note: My Muse is married to another person and lives in Dallas, Texas. We were close at our university. We have shared our secret love. I have an entire poetry book, “My Lady of Light Awaits Her Knight,” dedicated to her from which this poem was taken.

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Post yours in the comments section below.

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39 Responses

  1. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    My Moon Mouse Muse

    My Muse is a sonorous moon mouse.
    She’s canny and quirky and twee.
    She ousted a languishing loon-louse
    To scoot through my brainwaves with glee.

    She nudges and nuzzles and nibbles
    My shoddiest rhymes into shape
    With fervor she filched from two Sibyls,
    An imp, and a chimp in a cape.

    She burrows through bluster to beauty.
    She blesses papyrus with odes.
    Her paws are oft sore – it’s her duty
    To hurtle down less-traveled roads.

    She snags sassy similes soaring
    Sky high with a lyrical lilt.
    All metaphors verging on boring,
    She boldens and buffs to the hilt.

    My pink-whiskered, purple-furred feeder
    Of lexical fodder for thought
    Springs forth when she knows new words need her
    To weave them as laureates ought.

    I pray my Muse stays ever blazing
    To burst with verse dappled with sun
    In magical, page-turning phrasing…
    I pray the cat won’t get her tongue.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      What an entertaining fantastic poem about what must be the most unusual Muse in history! This is a great beginning to the challenge and an amazing tribute with your usual unassailable alliteration and imaginative imagery.

      Reply
    • Edward C. Hayes PhD Hayes

      Pretty durn good.
      Edward Hayes
      As yet unpublished. No real muse. Not amusing.

      Reply
  2. Arthur Goikhman

    Dear Calliope
    Calliope, my dear old friend,
    I write you in despair
    The numerous works that I have penned
    Are hardly standard fare
    No, I have grandeur, I have style
    My works are epic, pure
    And yet denial after denial
    Have rendered me obscure

    I hardly seek bestseller fame
    Or Hollywood awards
    But they reject, with notes of “lame”
    They use not pens, but swords
    These hurt my feelings but I keep
    Inscribing what I feel
    I persevere and do not weep
    I know my stuff is real

    Calliope, you know my plight
    So help me with my craft
    I’m striving only to delight
    So I include my draft
    And in a SASE envelope
    No postage, free of charge
    So mark it up and give me hope
    I wish to be writ large

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Arthur, your words resound with sincerity and a perfect plea that we all have experienced of rejection. This is a great poem that demonstrates your deft poetic skills that certainly are immense. Bringing Calliope into the present by sending a metaphorical letter is enchanting and winsome.

      Reply
  3. Mark Stellinga

    No… I Will Not Loan You My Muse!

    You’re gazing through your windows though not seeing what is there – and often cursing barren sheets of paper, terrified –
    Worried how depleted you’re reserve of ‘subjects’ is – afraid your muse has either lost her touch or – even died!

    It’s seemingly more difficult to conjure up a purpose adequately meaningful to justify the ‘cause’,
    And… struggling far too frequently to find the proper words… you wonder if the reason why is more than just a pause!

    Mine has never left my side for more than 60 years, helping me to prune the truths I’m trying to convey,
    And each collaboration has produced a piece of verse that says precisely what it was we meant for it to say!

    That, for me, is proof enough that penning without muses does leave poets stranded far more often than does not –
    But loaning you the one I have – even for a second – isn’t gonna happen — she’s the only one I’ve got!

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Mark, I am overwhelmed by such a great poem in tribute to your Muse who has inspired you for so long and your insistence that you will never even consider loaning your Muse. There is both levity and sincerity in your poem that you have conveyed to us. I love how you phrased the collaboration and the conclusion.

      Reply
  4. Mark Stellinga

    Coincidentally, I just penned this ‘Musie’ one yesterday, Roy – pardon my excess punctuation, I rely on it to help me better read my works at recitals. 🙂
    Cool challenge –

    This Is Our Final Poem!

    My Muse has all but ruined my life! That ornery little shithead far too often woke me with some random word or phrase
    At anywhere from 2 a.m. to 4 or 5 – abruptly – and, like a fool I’d stagger to my office – in a daze –

    Grab a piece of paper and record her damn suggestion – knowing I’d forget it if I’d opt to disobey –
    Then stumble back to lie awake, aware her ‘interruption’ would guarantee a – had-a-bad-night’s-sleep-ish sorta day.

    Fortunately those after-midnight now-n-then ‘disturbances’ have fostered, for the most part, what are good to super poems
    Which — off-n-on for 60 years have helped me fill the pages of a couple dozen – for the most part – briskly selling tomes!

    Nevertheless, at 95, I badly need my sleep, so… despite a Muse — a genuine Muse — is said to never age —
    This piece here’s the last one we’re submitting as – a ‘Team’, and represents, for her an’ I, our last book’s final page!

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Mark, what a fantastic continuation of your exotic poem that resonates with me though not with the negative thoughts which are turned on their head by your appreciation for the Muse having invaded your sleep. In my book, “Lady of Light,” are many poems inspired by my Muse after midnight. In fact, I provided a list in an appendix of 13 dreams I had of my Muse. Since I knew my Muse personally, I also have an appendix containing all the things she liked from food to golden oldies.

      Reply
  5. Carey Jobe

    The Desktop Muse

    The dealer droned on despite my frown,
    then I noticed her, hunched and gravel, kept
    on a cluttered shop floor long unswept,
    Greek beauty callously marked down.

    Suffering divinity looked on me then.
    Her iced eyes thawed to sparkling when
    I cleansed her brow with religious care
    and placed her to reign on my desktop. There

    her sunlit face shines coldly bright,
    a Mona Lisa in sculpted white,
    but under a cloud-crossed moon by night
    she dances in waves of milky light,

    lunar passions her morning features hide.
    Yet the smile dawning over my midnight phrase!
    As if love for a mind still trapped inside
    devolves like grace on one who prays.

    (Poet’s Note: Muse’s name withheld by request.)

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Carey, what a beautiful breathtaking find and tribute for the physical presence of your Muse on your desktop. How you found your “suffering divinity” and then restored her beauty is a great story and fascinated me in part because I have a desktop goddess in bronze as part of a desk set with inkwells.

      Reply
  6. Paul Freeman

    While I’m contemplating:

    A muse is just like writers’ block,
    Existence of such is a crock.
    No cat, dog or beau
    Can make the words flow –
    Your main inspiration’s the clock.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      I had to laugh at your initial contemplation; however, from my first poem as an example, I have been inspired and encouraged by one I regard as having the qualities of a Muse. I noted your second contribution and will respond to it, as well.

      Reply
  7. Paul Freeman

    And less cynically:

    My muse is the Sun and the Moon,
    A beautiful song or a tune.
    And oh, what a feast,
    Each plant and each beast,
    And mountain and sea Earth hath hewn.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Paul, the sun and moon can indeed inspire us to write poetry not only about them, but also about other fantasies such as nature, love, romance, and the list goes on. I appreciate your points of view and contributions.

      Reply
  8. fred schueler

    Here’s a song about the best-beloved doing her work – a series of watercolours of living individuals of all Canadian herpetofauna (the verse about myself supposedly working as hard as she does was inserted by her): REGINA SEPTEMVITTATA (10 Sept. 1986. Bishops Mills & Cartier, Ontario;  This is the story of the painting of Regina septemvittata, the Queen Snake, for Francis Cook’s ‘Amphibians & Reptiles of Canada,’ just after we returned from the transCanada Fragile Inheritance trip, on which our daughter Jennifer was conceived & born; based on Stan Rogers The Field Behind the Plow. The Mimp was our daughter Elsa, killed by a car in 1985, and the Simple Native was our brother Paul, also road-killed in 1977.

    Watch the snake behind the brush stand up on the page
    You can almost see it crawl, but you’ve got to do it all.
    Pencil scales and paint the eye, but your tea is cold
    And the CBC is playing rock and roll.

    And it figures that the child wants to get up now,
    She can sleep for hours while you are busy on the phone,
    But perhaps she’ll settle down, every keel’s a gain,
    And there’s victory in every row of scales.

    And so Frederick walks the floor,
    His frogs and bones and writing left alone,
    Gave it up to put her down,
    Read to you all afternoon.
    But it’s not the book he’d read if he could choose,
    It’s nothing he can use,
    As he works as hard as you.

    Poke your model in the side, No, he can’t stay there,
    He has got to turn around, show that little patch of brown,
    You can just paint what you see, but you wish he’d feed
    And you wonder how those rows fold as he turns.

    Half an hour, at the news, you’ll be stiff and cold
    Get the baby up to nurse, put some supper on the stove,
    And watch the snake behind the brush stand up on the page,
    Bind another species’ spirit to your own.

    If the Mimp were still alive
    She might be reading C.S. Lewis now,
    Get you up to exercise, microwave some Ovaltine.
    And the Simple Native might
    Be drawing Grasses in the Amazon.
    You’ve lost so much you love, or they’re California-bound.

    For the good times come and go, but at least you’re home
    So this won’t be left half done as you head on down the road,
    So watch the snake behind the brush stand up on the page,
    Bind another species’ spirit to your own.

    Watch the snake behind the brush stand up on the page,
    Bind another species’ spirit to your own.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Fred, so sad to read of your personal losses, but a precious tribute to the artistic talents of Regina and to her as your unspoken, but intimated Muse. Thank you for sharing.

      Reply
  9. Joseph S. Salemi

    There’s only one job for your Muse —
    She rouses you out of a snooze,
    Makes you get off your ass,
    Pump your brain full of gas,
    And write stuff that’s bound to amuse.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Dr. Salemi, what a funny take on the job of a Muse. Sometimes mental images of my Muse inspired me to write on a broad range of topics including humor. You are so right about when Muses seem to appear or at least are remembered. I usually have mental images and dreams of my Muse from my university days with exact colors of dresses, blouses, and skirts she wore. I plan to add much more on Muses later.

      Reply
  10. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Dr. Salemi and James Sale: Since both of you are scholars of poetry and of Dante, here is a poem I wrote about Dante’s Muse.

    DANTE’S MUSE WAS BEATRICE.
    By Roy E. Peterson

    Poets pursue a passion
    they find hard to conceal.
    Their idealistic lover
    whom they idolize with zeal.
    One who sets their heart on fire;
    one whom they yearn for;
    One whom they profess
    will be their lover evermore.

    Take the case of Dante,
    who fell in love with Beatrice.
    Though they only met twice,
    he dreamed of lover’s bliss.
    The first time they met,
    he was nine and she was eight.
    As young adults, they met again,
    through a quirk of fate.

    Both of them were walking
    on a Florence Street.
    When she turned and greeted him,
    she swept him off his feet.
    They never got together
    for love’s conjugation
    The emerald-eyed beauty though,
    became his inspiration.

    Tragically Beatrice died
    at the age of twenty-four.
    He never saw the object
    of his affection anymore.
    Dante wrote about her
    in his poetry you will find.
    After all, she became
    “the glorious lady of my mind.”

    “She is my beatitude,
    the destroyer of all vice
    And the queen of virtue,
    salvation,” though met twice.
    Now you know how Muses
    play upon imagination.
    They become the fountainhead
    We call inspiration.

    Reply
  11. Mike Bryant

    When you’ve paid all your poetry dues,
    It’s important to follow your muse.
    Be careful of diction
    Remember, it’s fiction
    Or you just might end up in the News!

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      I love your inventive and humorous poem, Mike. This is a perfect contribution.

      Reply
  12. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    “No poems can please for long or live
    that are written by water-drinkers.” ~ Horace

    MY MERRY MUSE

    My over-sober water jug must go.
    A buzzy flute of fizz will take its place –
    I’m told rhapsodic rhyme will only flow
    When fair Calliope is off her face.
    I’m on a tipsy trip through daffodils.
    I’m jocund as a jester on the gin
    Who juggles urns and smuggles nightingales
    To bardic heights of hyperbolic spin.
    The ghost of Dylan totters through the mist,
    A splash of frisky sloshing from his grail.
    His milk-wood mojo leaves my vellum kissed
    With inky glory ready to set sail
    On seas of balladry to sing then soar
    Beyond the hail of hiccups from the shore.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Dear Susan, your first one was so much fun, but I love so much your great Sonnet with the ghost of Dylan, the balladeer, one who’s lyrics and music are magic. I can imagine you writing while listening to his music and I take your “hail of hiccups from the shore” as a self-deprecating inference that further endears your poem and makes its own magic.

      Reply
  13. Gigi Ryan

    Let Me Tell You about Her

    She opens up my eyes to see beyond
    The suffering that’s present here on earth.
    She lets me hear Creation’s song of mirth,
    And feel the mercies fresh that come at dawn.
    I’ve walked the road of hopelessness alone;
    I’ve failed in ways I never thought I could.
    But then my muse appeared; I understood.
    Her light upon my path in beauty shone.
    She’s taught me much of goodness, truth, and love,
    By her gentle hands I’m often fed
    Amazing feasts of honey, wine and bread.
    She reminds me, “Keep your sights above.”
    And though I’ve yet to meet her face to face,
    She is my sister, Father’s daughter, Grace.

    Reply
  14. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Gigi, what an intriguing sonnet that begs the question of how she does all this for you while never having met Grace face to face. I presume, though, you have been able to be in contact with her by modern communication methods to include social media. From your beautiful thoughts of her, she seems to be a copy of you.

    Reply
  15. Gigi Ryan

    There I go again, being too vague.
    My earth born sister is an amazing person, but my muse, Grace, is the grace of God – a creation of His, as am I, thus my sister, in a sense.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Bless you for the clarification. I can understand your adoption of the “Grace” of God as a Muse-like entity. In any event, from your wonderful poetry, you have all the attributes of Grace/grace.

      Reply
  16. Maria Panayi

    For the Society Of Classical Poets

    Although my muse is one,
    She is made of many parts
    That are scattered far and wide
    And yet she is always by my side.
    I am enticed with delectable fare
    That inspire me to type and to thrive
    And take excellence too in my stride.
    Alas, this wonderful muse always strives
    But I let her down again and again
    But bless her , she never gives up,
    For her mission is carved in her heart,
    Poetry and beauty in life are a must.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Maria, that seems like you have found a wonderful Muse, since “she never gives up,” or did your Muse find you? Your poem gives rise to so many possibilities, especially with the “delectable fare,” which makes me think of some food product(s). Thank you for your contribution and your heartfelt expression, “Poetry and beauty in life are a must.”

      Reply
  17. Paul Freeman

    I think the muse deserted me on the last line:

    She rattles your brain, dusts it off,
    She makes you perk up with hee cough.
    You’re soon feeling swell,
    And drink from her well
    Like pigs with their snouts in a trough.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Your Muse must have deserted you by the last line on this one. Your Muse would never approve of the “pigs” simile. I will have to add a poem or two about the desertion of a Muse.

      Reply
  18. Roy Eugene Peterson

    WHEN MY MUSE WON’T APPEAR
    By Roy E. Peterson

    Indigo skies. Cobalt curtains come down.
    Hail and tornadoes are scarring the ground;
    Electric lightning sends daggers of dearth;
    Thunder to silence the meek of the earth.

    Batten the hatches; close up the cellars.
    Mimic ancestors; ancient cave dwellers.
    Wind shaking trees in a frenzied display.
    Rain falling like bullets, won’t go away.

    That’s how I feel when my Muse won’t appear;
    Trembling insatiably. Doom must be near.
    Faith, hope, and love are drowned in the flash flood.
    Something is slowing the flow of my blood.

    Heaven is lost. I have no where to turn
    Until the face of my Muse I discern.
    Then glorious rhapsodies I will sing.
    When the storm passes, I have everything.

    Reply
    • Paul Freeman

      I’ve sometimes noticed a similar phenomenon with reading poetry. I’ll read through a poem on the site, not be impressed, but later realise I as reading in entirely the wrong mood. Later, on a second reading, I discover an absolute gem .

      Reply
  19. Roy Eugene Peterson

    GREEK MUSES MUST HAVE DISAPPEARED.
    By Roy E. Peterson (July 20, 2024)

    The nine Muses have been called, “The Daughters of Wit and Charm,”
    Born of Zeus and Mnemosyne to cause none any harm.
    After all of the Greek poets that I consider great,
    The Muses must have turned their heads and left them to their fate.

    Each Muse represented their distinct literary bent–
    For history, dance and music and poetry were sent.
    When they were called upon, then to the writers they appeared.
    But after anno domino, they must have disappeared.

    Of all the early Greek poets before year 1 AD,
    Homer was the greatest with his Muse goddesses in play.
    There were dozens more who would often call upon their Muse.
    In the modern era they Greek Muses fell into disuse.

    In the Middle Ages, pretty women, poets would choose
    For their inspiration and they would call them their own Muse.
    Beatrice was Dante’s Muse who would mingle in his mind
    Since the childhood age of nine who had left Dante behind.

    In the modern era, Muses will still inspire men.
    They think of them as goddesses just as they did back then.
    When I am feeling lonely as I try to think and write,
    I turn to my special Muse I call, “My Lady of Light.”

    Poet Note
    The last of the great Greek poets is listed as Quintas Smyrmaeous
    in the fourth century. He wrote an epic poem, “Posthomerica.”

    Reply
  20. Roy Eugene Peterson

    MY MUSE HAS RETURNED TO ME
    By Roy E. Peterson

    My Muse returned again to me after three long years;
    After trials and tribulations, my doubts, and my fears.
    Ailments happened to her that affected how I write.
    My Muse has returned to me. She’s my Lady of Light.

    I finished up a book of poems that was haunting me.
    My Muse helped me write again composing poetry.
    In one week I wrote sixty poems. Oh, what ecstasy.
    I pray she will stay with me. She is my destiny.

    Reply
  21. Roy Eugene Peterson

    MUSES ARE SO HARD TO COME BY
    By Roy E. Peterson

    Poets, and singers, and artists need Muses
    To write, and to sing, and to paint.
    A perfect ideal who whispers to them
    Like a penitent talks to a saint.

    I feel like a sculptor when writing a poem,
    An image I have in my head.
    The rest of the poem is still an unknown
    I don’t know what lies ahead.

    I think of my Muse who waits silently
    For me to summon her image.
    Then my fingers fly as I write and I write.
    What I write I will read at the finish.

    Muses are so hard to come by these days,
    Who inspire what poets will do,
    A model who lives in our innermost soul.
    Thank heaven that I found you.

    Reply
  22. Roy Eugene Peterson

    I thought I might give a brief look at the Greek Muses and those of some famous poets.

    Greek Muse Origins:

    The Society of Classical Poets Survey revealed 44.1% of respondents said they relied on a Muse at least some of the time, whether that Muse was a living or dead one, spiritual or religious, a fantasy, and/or mythological figure.

    The three original Greek Muses were: 1.) Melete: the Muse of study and practice. 2.) Mneme: the Muse of remembrance and memory. 3.) Aoide: the Muse of song.

    The ancient Greek poet, Hesiod, expanded the three original Muses to nine: Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania.

    Famous Poets and Their Muses:

    1. Edgar Allan Poe’s wife, Virginia Clemm, was also his Muse.
    2. William Shakespeare and his Dark Lady.
    3. John Keats fiancée, Fanny Brawne, although the relationship was tumultuous and he also included nature.
    4. W.B. Yeats had a complex relationship with his Muse, Maud Gonne. Maud was an Irish revolutionary, feminist, and actress.
    5. Dante Alighieri’s Muse was Beatrice di Folco Portinari (Met her as a young boy and saw her once in their twenties.).
    6. Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Wollstonecraft (He left his first wife for her).
    7. Lord Byron’s poem, “She Walks in Beauty” was inspired by Mrs. Anne Beatrix Wilmot, his Muse and wife of his first cousin. He also wrote “Farewell to the Muse.”
    8. Robert Burns took Coila (Coilus) as a stated Muse from Coilus or Coel Hen, who was a King of the Picts. In his poem, ‘The Vision” the reference to Coilus is: “Coila my name; and this district as mine I claim.”
    9. Oscar Wilde’s Muse was Sarah Bernhardt, the most acclaimed actress of her day, and an exceptionally accomplished sculptor who exhibited in Paris, London, New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago.
    10. Some writers who mentioned Greek Muses collectively or individually: Homer, Virgil, Petrarch, Edmund Spenser, John Milton, William Wordsworth, W.H. Auden, Sylvia Plath.

    Reply

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