And this one is about an argument I had with Erato.
You do know the names of the muses, I hope.
But at any rate, Erato is the muse of lyric poetry.
And Calliope, as among other things,
one of the muses of heroic poetry.
And I was writing an unimportant poem when
Erato walked in and started raising hell
because she insisted that all poems have to be important,
and I couldn't feel important about this poem, at least
that's the dramatic situation.
"An Apology for Not Invoking the Muse."
Erato popped in, what a talent for suspicion.
Now what, she said.
I thought I knew.
I am writing an unimportant poem, I told her.
She slammed her lute down on my desk,
slammed it so hard it shook the air forever.
Even in anger, she gives off such sounds I cannot manage
a relevant emotion except in sensing how all lost belittle
belittles what's left to make it truth of.
Who authorized that?
She wanted to know.
Honey, I said, do I have to check with you
before I scratch an itch?
This was a small one in a minor crease I needn't specify
except to say we all have some.
I mean, we mortals.
And they do burn.
Was I being unreasonable?
I swear she was.
For 1,000 years of lute lessons in the crags
and a suffered dream of tuning types like you,
and you show your gratitude by scratching creases?
Nothing is more demanding than a woman who has given everything.
Yet, how she glowed.
Darling, I said, you were born the natural grandeur.
I worshipped you for it, gratefully.
I prayed to be worthy of you.
It's no use.
I am small, dull, subject to gravity,
and lot to these creases that itch
and must be scratched by those who
haven't had your advantages.
Besides, may I add, this unimportant form
is out bulging direct proportion.
Less would be better than more being more to the fact.
She misquoted deliberately.
You claim to be one of mine and still dare
speak of unimportant poems?
The least song clod consumes the singer.
Angel, I pleaded, not everything's
in Aeneid, which would make it Calliope's business
to begin with.
She glared.
You leave my sister out of this.
I mean, I love you most for the sweet, small
that trembles to a silence it awakens and echoes back
a ghost when you let me say it.
I let you say it?
You didn't even invoke me.
You haven't invoked me in over 30 years.
I recall my first trembling thunder and burned with shame.
Beloved, I said, I didn't want to bother you.
I thought I could say this little on my own
the way it happens to us in our smallness.
She touched a chord and was herself again.
I have never seen her more glorious.
Then leaned down to read what I had written, then stood tall.
See for yourself what comes of that,
she said, and struck her lute, and was
gone wherever she goes to the silence trembling after her.
In silence, I turned to my page and read the desperation.
How had I dared imagine I might day I'd be only what I am,
and yet, and yet.