I listened to this track by Oasis over and over again trying to figure out what it was about and then it came to me in a flash, they are talking about their muse. Although, having read an article in the NME Oasis don’t agree with me but what would they know they only wrote it. Listen to the song yourself and let me know what it says to you.
Poetry and song Lyrics can mean something very different to different people, it depends on your experiences of life. My understanding is shaped by my experiences and in the poetry I am writing for this blog I am sharing that understanding with the reader.
This blog has become my muse, the discipline of having to publish the blog every Friday has galvanised me into writing. It is easy, when I have no deadline, to put things off until tomorrow but a deadline works wonders for my creative juices. This is the thirty fifth post and it means I am half way through the blog. I promised myself that I would publish seventy new poems inspired by seventy artists with seventy different tracks and it feels good to get half way. Over the last 35 weeks there has been over a thousand visits from 25 different countries and I would like to say a big thank you for the support and the positive and encouraging feedback.
My poem for this week is a tribute to my muse. My journey as a writer has been a frustrating one. I still have a vivid memory of fifty years ago when a teacher ridiculed a short story I had written in front of the whole class. The shame and the embarrassment still lives with me today but somewhere deep within in me was a voice that was never still and that compelled me to write even if it was in secret.
When I was fifty three, with the support of my other muse, my wife Lynda, I enrolled at Newcastle University. I did a full time master’s degree in poetry and creative writing. It gave me permission to call myself a writer (Although I still find that an odd idea) and now myself and my muse have a much more public relationship.
I am looking forward to the next thirty five weeks.
The Wonder Years
She would whisper sonnets to me in the dead of night
Sometimes fragments of verse or snippets of stanzas
Building blocks of ideas and incongruous images
I fed her new words from in between the covers of novels
Reading her poetry from McGough, Mitchell and Shelley
Images from Elizabeth Bishop and punch lines from John Hegley
She loved the urban language of John Cooper Clarke
There was even a liking for Wordsworth and Keats
I bought her poetry magazines, chapbooks and pamphlets
Still she whispered and still the words could not find a voice
Then the dam broke and the words cascaded out
We enrolled in a school and studied for a degree in poetry
I became a Master and she became a Mistress
Now she will not leave me alone and follows me everywhere
Her night time whispers have become all day entreaties
The days are shorter now and there is still much to do
©Jeff Price November 2017