QuizBank Link Library Sinatra Sleevenotes Press Office Poetry Corner Free Software Games Room Music Room

On Creativity - or The Muse Maligned

The Artist's gaze is fixed and grim,
At the blank canvas facing him.
A while ago the Muse struck home,
And fired his wits so wont to roam.

Now inspiration's at an end,
Mere thought no longer can transcend
That awful abyss 'tween brush and paint;
The yawning gap where his art ain't.

In desperation moved at last,
A pencil takes he in his grasp,
And closing firmly both his eyes,
Muttering a prayer to Heavenly skies,
He scrawls upon that canvas white
And something forms beneath the light.

He looks, he gasps, he looks again.
What is this shape, so clear, so plain,
Which writhes about as though in pain?
Some denizen of Hell's domain?

Quickly he grabs his palette true
And squeezes paints of every hue.
In frenzied haste he wields his brush
As the world waits with baited hush.

And there, beneath his weaving hand
Appears a fiercely blazing strand
Of orange, green and indigo
Umber burnt and madder's glow.

It's done, all over, finished, past.
He has his masterpiece at last!
With final flourish he signs his name
On the canvas, now meek and tame.

With grateful sigh, he lays down brushes
And putting on his coat he rushes
Off to the "Pig and Whistle" 's cheer,
To celebrate with pie and beer.

Only later, as midnight chimes,
While gurgling alcoholic rhymes,
A sudden dread his brain is piercing -
What on Earth - to call the thing?

Nigel J Bacon

Click to visit the source of this image on the world wide web

Clown In The Moon
The Deserter
Don't Be Square
Flowers That Die
The Folks Who Live On The Hill
Getting There
I Am Scared Of...
Impression Du Matin
An Interlude
Mama, You Been on My Mind
The Old Familiar Faces
On Creativity
One Day I May Believe In Spring
People On Trains
Trial & Error
What Ifs
When You Are Old
Wit and Wisdom

Home Search Historic Web Site Email Help