The Muse comes as a dancer. When the night grows still and the energy of the day has begun to ebb. The dancer appears to artists, children and poets. She comes softly or wildly as fits her mood. Like an old friend she comes, dancing across thoughts and dreams. Fleeting glimpses of the eternal flow in her invisible wake, like ripples upon a still pond.
She comes, bearing the hidden secrets of all things. Praise her, curse her, adore her or despise her, as you will, but, ignore her, Never! The dancer comes easily, but departs absolutely, from those who ignore the abundance of her gifts. To those foolish enough to ignore the Dancer, the memory of Her voice echoes in the brain, as a taunting reminder of what might have been.
Like the wee folk of the Isles, She is drawn by candlelight, warm tea, quiet moments, and abrasive visionaries with powerful passions. The dancer slips in invisibly, happily, and silently, bringing with Her, the thoughts and dreams of others, distant in time or space. She is a jealous lover, but the most passionate and pleasing of all.
Author
Seasons of Love - From RENT
Five hundrend twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
Five hundrend twenty five thousand
moments so dear
Five hundrend twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year
In daylight, in sunsets, in midnights,
in cups of coffee,
in inches, in miles
in laughter, in strife
In five hundrend twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life
(chorus)
How about Love
how about love
how about love
measure in love
seasons of love
seasons of love
Five hundrend twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
Five hundrend twenty five thousand
journeys to plan
Five hundrend twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
how do you measure the life of a woman
or a man
In truth that she learned
or in times that he cried
In the bridges she burned
or the way that he died
It's time now to sing out
though the story never ends
let's celebrate remember a year
in the life of friends
(chorus)
How Poems Are Made/A Discredited View
by Alice Walker
Letting go
in order to hold on
I gradually understand
how poems are made.
There is a place the fear must go.
There is a place the choice must go.
There is a place the loss must go.
The leftover love.
The love that spills out
of the too full cup
and runds and hides
its too full self
in shame.
I gradually comprehend
how poems are made.
To the upbeat flight of memories.
The flagged beats of teh running
heart.
I understand how poems are made.
They are tears
that season the smile.
The stiff-neck laughter
that crowds the throat.
The leftover love.
I know how poems are made.
There is a place the loss must go.
There is a place the gain must go.
The leftover love.