I am Not his Muse

 

I am not his muse, and I can never be.

No time, circumstance or chance will let me.

 

After all he gives and gets, loves, regrets,

he remains my teacher and I, the taker.

He is anarchist and challenging creator,

who advocates the belief I have no need

to be seen and posed as a poetical parody.

I raise a reluctant pen, listening to his elation.

Spoken softly in spite of my self-deprecation,

questioning whether to make my verse heard.

 

I am not his muse, and I can never be.

No time, circumstance or chance will ever let me.

 

 

© Katy Megan Hughes 2016

In an Artist’s Studio

image

One face looks out from all his canvasses,
One self same figure sits or walks or leans;
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
A saint, an angel; – every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light;
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

 

Christina Rossetti