Writer’s block or creative lulls (whatever you want to call them) are often a source of inspiration for me. I’m actually compiling a chapbook containing all my writer’s block poems. I’m a third of the way there.
Just a few weeks ago the creative juices were frozen (it is winter, after all), and it popped in my head that the muses must be on strike. Some of you might be wondering who the muses are. In Greek mythology, the muses are nine daughters of Zeus thought to inspire arts and science. (See picture above for reference).
This seemed like fertile ground for a poem, so I wrote one. “The Muses Are on Strike” will be in a future book called A Song of Glass, as well as my writer’s block chapbook (whenever I have enough poems).
By the way, I also used ChatGPT to write a sequel in which I get revenge on the muses by turning to AI for inspiration. ChatGPT has a ways to go before writing anything of quality, but it gave me a mediocre start. If I can spruce it up enough, I’ll include it as a gag poem.
The Muses Are on Strike
The muses are on strike.
They want more pay for poetry.
So do I.
But apparently it’s MY FAULT
that poetry is a niche market,
so they walked.
Tossing her head, Calliope said,
“You’re an epic waste of time.”
Clio grimaced and growled,
“You and I are history.”
Polyhymnia hymned and hawed
but finally told me to go to Hades.
As she stomped by,
Euterpe belted out,
“These boots are made for walking!”
and jabbed my foot with her heel.
Erato was gone in the morning.
She just left a note on my pillow.
After crying for hours,
Melpomene gouged her eyes with a melon-baller.
Cheeks matted with blood, tears, and connective tissue,
she lurched along, groping the air,
and fell into a pit of rabid women
who ate her.
Thalia walked off
braying and doubling over.
Terpsichore went into a ballet-spin,
tornado-slapping my face
into a rose garden of shame
after which, Urania beat me
with her asteroid belt
‘til I saw stars.
The nine of them
(minus the one who was eaten)
circle Hippocrene Spring,
brandishing strike signs,
raising fists,
and shouting catchy, alliterative slogans.
Meanwhile, I slouch at my desk,
chewing and drooling on a pen cap
as I try to figure out
how to end this
tragedy of a poem.
A Wandering Minstrel 