Month: February 2005

The Star Maker speaks volumes, in Greek
a wise man with rational principles,
inventing new methods for calculating prime numbers
a man of ethics and ellipses,
the Star Maker studies orbits,
dreams of satellites, planets, and comets
and mapping the sky.

The Star Maker, alchemist and geomancer
binds thought to water,
weaves halos of tin,
and summons bone from air
the Star Maker
speaks in circles of his theories of life,
of gravitational pull
and the swell of the waxing full moon.

The Star Maker, seer and cunning deceiver
divines portents from meteors and scatters of light,
ceaselessly searches for a unified theory of life
the Star Maker, keeper and monster slayer
watches over memory,
haunts dreams, never sleeps
the Star Maker thinks the unthinkable thing
and keeps the unknowable hidden from sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I guess I’m in the midst of a poetry writing binge. I recently pulled out my book of Homeric hymns, which is probably what spawned it. I love the Homeric hymns. I’ve always envied the the ability to know one’s gods so intimately that they are an unquestioned part of everyday life; that the gods could be as real and familiar as one’s friends and relations. I’ve never had that sort of faith.

I also envy people who have created their own mythologies. It’s not that I don’t have recurring threads, thoughts, and dreams, but until now I’ve never bothered to try to gather them together give them tangible form.

Day after day she forgets
the long run
the thief, stealing from her
rain drops spilling down glass
not lost, not sold, not given
the compass was hope for the scrubbing
How do you touch the dark?
Nasturtiums and a large bag of knitting and felt
but they are of charm and she would never see red
my heart, Portia to an artist in training,
remembers
the bone of a thought that was hid long ago
in a place only dreaming could know.

Ely in Paris
(Creation Myth for a Muse)

Ely in Paris sent Pandora the hide
that matched my forty hours
Ely makes books and sundials
publishes treatises on perspective and collected theosophical works
Ely, keen on The Creation and the natural history of comets
makes up dances containing rules for my inspiration
my relations with you, the painter, and the poet
the alphabet chaser and curious baker,
disordered phantasms, all
in the unknowable place where I dwell
with our collective achievements.

We heard drums, but my palette also talked
of the old mossy bough, of beautifully drawn color
we saw happiness-to-go and looked all around
the ghosts were threatening desertion
Will I believe? Ely must tell me
we sat there for five days
five days wading through shit
and memories that follow rain,
follow bone, ground to dust
each day Ely fashions a furious storm cloud of woe
everything harder than anything.

————————————————–

Yesterday’s musings about Pandora and hope led to today’s musings about the creative process. Where does inspiration come from? The ancient Greeks believed they were inspired–literally–by the muses. The creative act was seen as an act of spiritual possession. The gods inspire us to create and in creating we become gods. This presents a chicken-and-egg problem: Man creates Art creates Man; God creates Man creates God. Where does it start and where does it end? And, who’s in charge here? Does the artist control the muse or does the muse control the artist?

Whatever the answer, I figured that my muse was owed a creation myth.