This is an older poem. It fell into my head after listening to an episode of NPR’s “Radiolab” that talked about the origins of the muse. In it, there was a short monologue by a man who would definitely fall into my list of top ten human beings, Tom Waits. He said that he approaches each of his songs as if they were living creatures. He talks to them; tries to understand their habits; their inner workings. Almost like spirits that wrestle his attention until he gives in and turns them into music. Sometimes though, Waits said, they show up unexpectedly at the wrong moments and then never return. I think anyone who attempts to harness their own creative energy as a means to live without personal insanity, which I believe is a large sum of people, including EVERYONE who blogs, can relate to that.
Literary Cannibalism Can Lead to
No use in searching for a poem –
It will find you and make itself known.
Unannounced, unintended, untimely, unexpected
It crudely intrudes while you’re uncollected.
It finds you soaking, standing in the shower,
Or far from freedom, frozen in rush-hour;
When you’re without aid of paper or pen
You shout, “Leave me alone, but come back again!”
Yet only the former request is respected,
And the poem again becomes undetected.