Dialogue Between Two Muses

First Muse

My poet is in love, I know it!

All day long I sing my song,

But he does not hear it!

He is lost in the art

Of weaving romantic intrigues

And forging promises in his heart

That have nothing to do with me!

Oh, I have been replaced, I know it!

No more songs will be sung from those most perfect of lips,

With that most perfect of voices!

All day long he dreams of her,

His tongue neglecting my song,

Rehearsing a kiss!

Oh, the waters of melancholy that once filled his soul

Have begun to drift away towards bliss,

And soon the low and mournful toll

Of the funeral bells that called me home

Will fade, and wedding bells will take their place!

Oh, me! I will fade, fade completely from his mind!

Second Muse

Do not despair, my friend,

For we muses are eternal

And infinite are the wiles with which

We earn our dividends.

Listen close, for I will say it but once.

There is a way to reach your man.

Go not to him, but rather, find the one he loves.

Enter her by dream,

By sight of sky, or gust of wind.

She is the sort who will let you in

Without putting up a fight,

For she has not the calloused mind

Of a well-practiced poet.

Let her be your conduit—enter her, and wait.

He will win her. I know it. I overheard it said by Fate.

And when he does, naturally they will kiss,

And at this moment of unadulterated bliss,

Pass through her mouth and over his lips.

When he looks at her again

From his newfound state of rapture,

Your song will arise in his heart

And reach its former stature.

First Muse

You are very wise indeed, my friend.

Earthly wisdom from a spirit

Is not easily obtained.

How came you upon these wiles?
Have you practiced them before?
For I myself work quite at random,

Like an addict knocking door to door.

Second Muse

I am not really a muse, my friend,

At least not anymore.

Though I show all the signs—

The aura of green, the eyes of fire—

It is no longer my job to give gifts of song to man,

No longer my job to inspire.

I was for many ages a muse, indeed.

But that was before things went sour for me.

You see, I took on poets like Plath and Sexton,

Then later Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin.

These poets, for whatever reason (I blame myself)

Took to the art of self-destruction.

It seemed every poet whose voice sang my song

Later fell away from earthly life

As if death had been their calling all along.

So now I stay here, in the Heavens, advising.

For muses I find are most often lacking

In prudence, patience, and often, timing.

First Muse

I am sorry for your misfortune, my friend.

Indeed fortune can be cruel.

I know him well, so I would know.

I too have been fortune’s fool.
But tell me, don’t you feel a longing

To return to your sacred craft?

To make men weep for truth

And for truth turned on its head, laugh?

For we muses are essential, my friend.

Our songs keep men on the righteous path.

Without our gifts, men would slip,

And Hell would rise

Consuming the world in wrath.

Second Muse

I am not in the least tempted, my friend,

To return to what you rightly call a sacred path.

I am perfectly content to remain here in my idleness,

To be amused by other muses

Rather than be a muse myself.

Besides, I’ve found that since I’ve left the craft,

It has all been for the best.

The music has grown sweeter, and the truth

Has coalesced.

First Muse

But I would argue that the opposite is true.

The music of the times lacks the touch of innocence

That made the music of the past more refined.

Perhaps it is your own renunciation

That has caused such a lack.

Return to us, my brother.

Advising muses might be noble,

But advising poets? That is the most noble of tasks!

Surely there must be a song

That you know but do not sing.

Why hold on to beauty?
That is not only heresy, but in fact,

A dangerous thing!

Second Muse

There is a song that I have inside me, it is true,

Which has been stirring for a very long time.

The subtleties of its harmonies, in fact,

Seem so glorious to me that I fear

Should I sing it, every poet in the world would hear,

And then like Babel the world would fall,

And we muses would lose all that we hold dear.

Of course I know that these are idle fantasies,

The dream of every muse that ever sang into a poet’s ear.

But I dare not sing it anyway,

Even into the layman’s ear.

It might drive him mad, I fear

And make him take his life,

A life which matters greatly to many

Whether he sings my song or not.

First Muse

I would ask you to sing this song to me,

But you know that that is against the rules.

We muses are burdened with our own songs.

Your song is not for me to assume.

But why not take a chance?

Why not find a lonely child

Who longs for love and romance,

Who searches for these things in unreachable places,

And cannot express his longing,

Is mute, but whose eyes the truth consorts with?

Fill his mind with your song,

That he might share it with the world.

Then again you might fulfill your duty,

And become one with the Lord.

Second Muse

I have searched the faces and the souls of the mortals.

There is not one who deserves my song.

I will keep it to myself for eternity,

Even after mankind has long gone.

Then perhaps I might sing it

To some lifeless object that remains
To give it life in a world otherwise devoid of life.

But as for man, my song has led him nowhere

But to his grave.

Do not pester me, my friend.

Instead, go to your work.

One song is as important as another,

And yet, sometimes a song must die
In order for existence to be better served.