I often speak of my muse, she who whispers verse into my ear; but who is my muse? Classical mythology cannot even pin down the number of muses. Were there three, or where there nine?
They are supposedly the offspring of Zeus and Mnemosyne (a Titan whose name means memory). One might notice the similarity between the name and mnemonics: memory devices used by many, including me.
I chose, for my personal muse, Thália. She is the muse of idyllic poetry and comedy. I need any help I can get in poetry,though mine borders more on idiotic that idyllic, and my comedy has always been weak—hey, maybe she doesn’t help after all.
SONNET TO THÁLIA
by Mike Patrick
Tis in the early morning hours she comes,
A disembodied voice of whispered cheer.
With knowledge of my soul’s hard depth she plumbs,
To guide my poem’s life, both far and near.
So like a lover’s touch is her sweet word.
A shower gently falling on my ear,
Reminding me of all the love I’ve heard.
As long as she remains, my thoughts stay clear.
But with the rising sun her voice dispels.
With only scraps of verse, to which I cling,
Now left behind, where joy no longer dwells.
Oh, Thália, this ode to you I sing.
Tonight, once more, I’ll lie in dark despair,
Until again, my winsome muse is there.