on the elusive nature of inspiration


thoughts inspired by a reaction to a short story I wrote:
A Wild Thing Within Me

A novel?
A page, a penny for a page!
And two more if I guard well the window of my soul.

Alas, I succumb to the numbing days, a million shards of sunlight,
Jumbled upon my eyes 'til I cannot see!

Oh, to stand stout-hearted 'gainst the raging currents of time,
And throw off this parsimonious existence amid the grinding minutes,
Miniscule in their persecutions, their demand for perfections.

'Tis a wild thing within me, there is no harness.
A muse of beauty so shy in all its proportions,
It cannot stand the noise of day;
So jealous for my attention,
It will not share the moment with any distractor.

Thus I know not when or how or why.
Going onward, a stumble, a step, two, by achromatic visions
Until once again, unannounced, an excimer shower of joy weeps
Through the clatter and I hold a jewel begotten, wrapped in new light.

Ken Paxton
September 2005