Muse or Odalisque, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Courbet Gustave -Jo the Beautiful Irish Girl (1866)

Jo, the Beautiful Irish Girl,  Gustave Courbet (1866)

 

Muse or Odalisque, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The mirror shows the color of my hair,
But silent on my internal despair.
O but wishing this piece of glass could care,
As my quandary has been a nightmare.

With two so distinct can my love I share?
What I ask is it a request so rare?
Understanding it be an odd affair,
Yet to cast aside one would be unfair.

To make a choice of one my heart I’d tear.
A love of both no issues to declare.
Am able to withstand the wretched stare.
When Whistler or Courbet call I’ll be there.

Such arrangements are not so very quare.
Is it novel to have wife and affair?

 

 

 

The Muse, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

z-Romney George-Lady_Hamilton_as_CirceGeorge Romney, Lady Hamilton as Circe (c. 1872)

The Muse, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Starring unfocused at empty paper.
If I be less than a scared cuttlefish,
Squirting ink into the unsafe water.
With absent thoughts ready to relinquish.

Magical words to sweep thee off thy feet,
Nowhere in my mindful search were they found.
Unfit of thy love to admit defeat.
Gridlocked mind must be hurriedly unbound.

Closed eyes thou stand vividly before me,
Beauty beyond that which graced to Circe.
To free this mind gladly pay the bounty,
But the cost is lost memory of thee.

This conundrum I am forever doomed,
A taste of thy love nev’r to be consumed.

 

The Muse, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Godward-Erato_at_Her_Lyre (1)

John William Godward, Muse Erato at Her Lyre (1895)

 

The Muse, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Erato, name so true, thou art my muse.
Gazing upon thy beauty motivates.
Thy every movement provides many cues,
While words from thy lips so invigorate.

My pen never tires when writing of thee,
Though thou be a far distance from my touch.
Eyes tightly closed I feel thee before me,
The vision I feel of thee is nonesuch.

Over my heart, Oh, the power thou has,
To do whatever be thy desired will,
As I am helpless captured by thy snares.
Of this shall write ‘til my body is still.

Why is it then that I must write so free?
So the future knows of my love for thee.