Wednesday, 16 October 2013

My very own poetry-book......6..................The Muse.

In the corner of  an old museum,  lay this very old crate ,
With olden golden artifacts,  and statues  delicate
Inquisitive  was I to see why they  were of  no use
To my pleasant surprise, in it, I found this pretty little  “muse”

Dressed in a robe  of  exquisite fabric,  on her  head a crown of gold
She seemed to be gazing at the violin in her hand, which, however looked old
The bed she sat, weaved in  golden  straw,  the quilt that lay on it too,
The   litte dog that sat beside,  seemed to watch her every move.

I looked up here and there  to see, if someone was around,
Sure now that I was alone, I swung her up, on the ground
How long had she been there now, I started to wonder,
Only   a year or two was  it,  or many years yonder?

Gazing at her intently, I wished to know her tale,
As also of the sculptor who carved this damsel  frail
Which child of Zeus and Mnemosyne, did he have in  his mind?
Of all their nine daughters, which one was of his kind?

Was she the one from  Literature or Science or from Art?
Or  was she  just a “water nymph”  he sculpted part by part?                                                          
Greek goddesses these  Muses are, their  tales as child, I'd heard,
For source of inspiration they’re known,  in myths or in  poet’s words.

Why  does it feel,  standing there , that she may come to life?
Or the  silent hall re-sounding, with her violin strumming rife
Would she walk away from here then,  to where she’s meant to be?
To the heavenly  abode where her  heart  is, to her World of melody?

And what about the sculptor,  the one who carved her  charm
Was he still  somwhere around here, or had he come to any  harm
If only could I meet him someday,  for over an hour  or two
To hear his tale of this creation and give him his deserved due!!


(C) Archana Tambe