My muse is not a pretty sight: no maid
in pale, translucent robes, no angel taking flight.
My muse is quite a different beast, imagine if you can:
dark, hairy, gruff, outspoken, and a man.
My muse and I are yoked as one. Like oxen
in a team, we grunt and pull and strain. We drag the plow
that breaks the field. At the end of each long row,
we turn, look back and bellow at the work we’ve done.
We do not choose our muse; it’s our muse who chooses us.
Musing’s not an easy job; I told him he’d be better free.
Without a word, he disagreed. I lumbered off, he followed me,
until, when ready for my work, I gentled to his touch.
To be thus married to my muse is everything I’d ask;
no other muse has ever lived so suited to the task.
David Milley
