The poetry left me today;
That little flame of pride,
She made sure—
To extinguish last night.

And in my helplessness,
All I could say:
“Why did I ever think
She was going to stay?”

I thought I was her poet,
And she was my free verse.
I thought I could get her
To see it my way.

And in my foolishness,
I told her: “You are my creation!”

But she was contrary
And told me straight-faced—
I was nothing without her,

For she had her own say,
And that my opinion
Didn’t matter anyway.

And she could find
Another loser—
Who would see it her way.

And as I look back
At all the poems
I had written,

I thought they were mine,
But it turned out
They were hers.

For she was the rhyme,
And I had no reason.

So, what am I going to do now
with all my selfishness?
For I have no muse,
and I’m too poor to afford a mistress.

I guess I’ll have to settle for an AI chat bot…

By: ElRoyPoet © 2018

An Analysis of the Creative Struggle and the Muse in Poetry

The poem captures the complex relationship between a poet and their muse, reflecting on themes of creativity, dependency, and loss. Through a first-person narrative, the speaker expresses feelings of helplessness and betrayal as they grapple with the realization that their poetic voice has been stifled by the very muse that inspired them. This theme resonates with several famous poems, where the relationship between the poet and their source of inspiration evokes similar emotions of conflict and yearning.

The speaker’s lament begins with the line, “The poetry left me today; / That little flame of pride, / She made sure— / To extinguish last night.” Here, the imagery of a “little flame” symbolizes the fragile nature of inspiration. The sense of loss is palpable as the poet feels that their creative spark has been snuffed out. This idea parallels John Keats’ poem “Ode to a Nightingale,” where the speaker grapples with the impermanence of beauty and the fleeting nature of inspiration. Keats writes, “O for a draught of vintage! That hath been / Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, / Tasting of Flora and the country green.” In these lines, the poet yearns for a drink of inspiration that is both timeless and deeply rooted in nature. Both poets illustrate a profound connection to their sources of creativity, linking them inseparably to the themes of beauty and loss.

As the poem progresses, the speaker reflects on their misguided belief that they could control their muse: “I thought I was her poet, / And she was my free verse.” This line encapsulates the duality of power in the creative process, suggesting both admiration for the muse and a misguided sense of ownership. Similarly, in “When You Are Old,” W.B. Yeats explores the tension between affection and the passage of time, urging the beloved to embrace love and beauty in retrospect: “But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, / And loved the sorrows of your changing face.” Yeats captures the poignancy of memory and the realization that love—and, by extension, creative inspiration—can be both uplifting and elusive.

The speaker’s assertion in the line, “I told her: ‘You are my creation!’” is met with a dismissive retort, “I was nothing without her.” This exchange highlights the dependency between the poet and the muse, where the muse asserts her autonomy and value independent of the poet’s words. Here, one can draw a parallel to the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot, where the protagonist struggles with self-doubt and the desire for connection. Eliot’s line, “In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo,” reflects an awareness of self-worth conditioned by the opinions of others. Both speakers confront a complex interplay of identity and inspiration, revealing the tension that can arise when a poet’s voice feels inadequately acknowledged.

Towards the climax of the poem, the speaker confronts the reality of their poetic output: “I thought they were mine, / But it turned out, / They were hers.” This realization echoes the sentiments expressed in Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art,” where she muses on loss as an integral part of life and art. Bishop states, “The art of losing isn’t hard to master,” suggesting that acceptance of loss can yield deeper insights into the creative process. The speaker in “The Poetry Left Me Today” comes to terms with the idea that his creations may not be solely his own but rather products of a shared, albeit tumultuous, relationship with his muse.

Finally, the closing lines, “So, what am I going to do now / With all my selfishness? / For I have no muse, / And I’m too poor— / To afford a mistress?” encapsulates the poignant despair of a poet stripped of their source of creativity and inspiration. The rhetorical questions evoke a sense of urgency and helplessness, reflecting on the internal conflict that arises from this loss. This theme is reminiscent of Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy,” where the speaker grapples with longing and pain, asserting, “I have to kill you.” Plath’s fierce declaration encapsulates the struggle between dependence and the desire for liberation from oppressive influences, similar to the speaker’s yearning for independence from their defunct muse.

In conclusion, the poem resonates deeply within the canon of poetic expressions surrounding the struggles of creativity and inspiration. Through the examination of relationships between the poet and the muse, this poem echoes the sentiments found in the works of Keats, Yeats, Eliot, Bishop, and Plath. Each poet navigates the intricate dance of dependence and autonomy, revealing the multifaceted nature of inspiration—a force that can be uplifting and yet painfully elusive. The exploration of these themes reminds us that the path of a poet is often fraught with challenges, characterized by moments of triumph and failure, creativity and despair. Ultimately, the interplay between the poet and their muse remains a rich territory for exploration and reflection within the art of poetry.

“Muse” definition: Noun.
1. Any of the nine sister goddesses in Greek mythology presiding over song, poetry, the arts, and sciences.
2. A source of inspiration, especially: a guiding genius; a person, imaginary being, or force that gives someone ideas and helps them to write, paint, or make music. “The writer’s beloved wife was his muse.”

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Writer’s Block

The poetry left me today;
That flicker of pride,
She snuffed it out last night—
With just a quiet stride.

And in my helplessness,
All I could say:
“Why did I ever imagine
She was going to stay?”

I thought I was her poet,
And she, my free verse—
A muse I could sway,
To see my universe.

Foolish in my confidence,
I claimed: “You are my creation!”
But she, so contrary,
Met me with resignation—

“You are nothing without me,” she replied,
Yet, I know she’s right—
She’s the voice inside my head,
A bird in flight.

For she had her own mind,
And dismissed my plea—
My opinions, mere whimpers,
Lost in her decree.

She’d find another—
A curious fool,
Who’d see her way,
And bend the rule.

Looking back at all the poems,
That once felt mine—
They were her secrets,
Hidden in rhyme.

She was the rhythm,
The reason I’d write—
And I, just a shadow,
Without her light.

So now, what am I to do—
With all this selfish ache?
No inspiration, no passion,
Just memories to remake.

Too poor for a mistress,
Too empty to create—
I guess I’ll have to settle—
For another AI session.