Approaching the Writing Room

The room is silent, sullen.

My pens face away, holding their dry ink breath.

My books are closed, spines shunning my touch.

My chair is turned away, arms aloof.

Standing before my indifferent desk

I am the disrobing adulteress – ashamed

of how I spent the time before this moment,

afraid my lover will not want me now.

Such long delays …

So many betrayals …

I have been pursuing others:

Kooser, Frost, Bukowski , Blake …

I have swooned with masters of the art.

I have been stumbling in fear,

hushed by voices so unlike mine

blind to my vision

deaf to my heart.

How jealous is my muse?

Will he rush to me

cueing the violins

animating these empty pages

with our passion?

Or will he punish me with cruel distance?

This is not the first time I’ve cowered

silenced by mockery, self-doubt.

I have quailed before at being seduced alive

perhaps to emerge an unfamiliar self.

I whisper a prayer of contrition

and eke onto paper what I can alone,

waiting for him to raise his head

and come into my eyes,

whisper in my ear,

caress my heart with his quill.

I feel the hand of the muse lightly on my thigh.

I never know when he will take me …

only that he will

as I work

and wait … here

in my writing room.

Sybilla 8/26/08

Painting "This is Where the Magic Happens" by Mark Hobley