The Greeks said, those great Muses <br />who civilise us, grace our dance of life, <br />were once, before they were nine, <br />just three; and before that, <br />only one was named: and she was, Memory. <br /> <br />Does that make poets just regurgitators <br />of what’s already been oft said - <br />and better, too, some would aver…? <br /> <br />No, it’s more subtle than that; ask a poet: <br />a poem that comes warm, hot, from the human heart <br />demands a summary birth; won’t hang around <br />while you go out to buy more toys and frills <br />to hang around the cot… <br /> <br />it is indeed, more like remembering: <br />as if you step into a timeless place <br />where all that’s needful is to remember <br />what the future poem shall, will, have said.. <br /> <br />write it down; and maybe sleep on it; <br />when you wake, you may remember <br />two lines somewhere which you’d forgotten, <br />but know exactly where that is… <br /> <br />That Muse of memory will then decide <br />whether a poem that has a timeless birth, <br />may have a timeless life... or not... <br /> <br />How can a poet claim a poem as his, or hers, <br />when such a Muse? and yet, so close at hand?<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/remembering-the-future/
