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?
|
