The Muses

 Les Muses by Martin Tzou

Les Muses by Martin Tzou

The muses are all silent today
      It is July after all
      and the humidity is high
                                                I think
      they do not do the damp

I listen to the river
      It too has nothing to say
      flowing placid in its banks
                                                    I fear
      the snow has lost its humor

And the white mountain
      is only pretending now
      to be a mountain after all
                                        for the sake
      of the visiting tourists

Only the sea whispers
      in its strange dialect
      I have not yet mastered
                                    asking Where
      O Where is the wind?

We drift in doldrums
      awaiting a current
      to catch our flat keel
                                                carry us
      back into the storm

“If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile
under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin
which was rough as a thousand sharpened nails

And you know
what a smile means, don’t you?” ~ Mary Oliver


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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2 Responses to The Muses

  1. silent? – not hardly

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Maureen says:

    even a poem about silent muses becomes poetry

    Liked by 2 people

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