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And this one is about an
argument I had with Erato.

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You do know the names
of the muses, I hope.

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But at any rate, Erato is
the muse of lyric poetry.

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And Calliope, as
among other things,

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one of the muses
of heroic poetry.

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And I was writing an
unimportant poem when

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Erato walked in and
started raising hell

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because she insisted that all
poems have to be important,

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and I couldn't feel important
about this poem, at least

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that's the dramatic situation.

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"An Apology for Not
Invoking the Muse."

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Erato popped in, what
a talent for suspicion.

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Now what, she said.

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I thought I knew.

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I am writing an unimportant
poem, I told her.

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She slammed her lute
down on my desk,

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slammed it so hard it
shook the air forever.

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Even in anger, she gives off
such sounds I cannot manage

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a relevant emotion except in
sensing how all lost belittle

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belittles what's left
to make it truth of.

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Who authorized that?

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She wanted to know.

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Honey, I said, do I
have to check with you

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before I scratch an itch?

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This was a small one in a
minor crease I needn't specify

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except to say we all have some.

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I mean, we mortals.

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And they do burn.

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Was I being unreasonable?

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I swear she was.

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For 1,000 years of lute
lessons in the crags

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and a suffered dream of
tuning types like you,

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and you show your gratitude
by scratching creases?

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Nothing is more demanding than a
woman who has given everything.

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Yet, how she glowed.

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Darling, I said, you were
born the natural grandeur.

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I worshipped you
for it, gratefully.

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I prayed to be worthy of you.

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It's no use.

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I am small, dull,
subject to gravity,

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and lot to these
creases that itch

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and must be scratched
by those who

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haven't had your advantages.

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Besides, may I add,
this unimportant form

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is out bulging
direct proportion.

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Less would be better than
more being more to the fact.

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She misquoted deliberately.

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You claim to be one
of mine and still dare

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speak of unimportant poems?

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The least song clod
consumes the singer.

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Angel, I pleaded,
not everything's

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in Aeneid, which would
make it Calliope's business

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to begin with.

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She glared.

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You leave my sister out of this.

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I mean, I love you most
for the sweet, small

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that trembles to a silence
it awakens and echoes back

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a ghost when you let me say it.

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I let you say it?

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You didn't even invoke me.

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You haven't invoked
me in over 30 years.

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I recall my first trembling
thunder and burned with shame.

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Beloved, I said, I didn't
want to bother you.

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I thought I could say
this little on my own

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the way it happens to
us in our smallness.

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She touched a chord
and was herself again.

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I have never seen
her more glorious.

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Then leaned down to read what
I had written, then stood tall.

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See for yourself
what comes of that,

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she said, and struck
her lute, and was

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gone wherever she goes to the
silence trembling after her.

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In silence, I turned to my
page and read the desperation.

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How had I dared imagine I might
day I'd be only what I am,

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and yet, and yet.

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