Sing, Muse

Dear reader,

Please read the following poem. Then, please click the link and listen to me read it; I have of late found great value in reading poetry aloud. Once you do those two things (it should take but two minutes of your time), you are welcome to read my explanation of the poem or to interpret it for yourself. I’d imagine both will lead to similar conclusions. Finally, if you are so inclined, I would love to hear from you! Thank you in advance!

-Ryanne

First, the written word: 

Sing, Muse, of rage-

     or rather- Desire.

     Drive with twin rhyming whips –

              Name and Fame-

     up mountains toppling, rising peak,

     ever crying, out of reach,

     “On, on, onward!”

.

Harpy howl to clamoring poets’ ears

     as siren song does fall.

     Dazzling, drawing, drowning:

     divine-seeming, it pulls

     still higher, higher

     up Tow’r where language

     began and begins

     “On, onward, pilgrims!”

.

So scaling e’er, traipsing eager,

     though weary,

     worshippers seeking sanctuary

     not for rest

     but to exalt,

     that which in climbing, we sculpt:

           New relic, sainted self.

.

Oh! To be one of the many few,

     who, pious, always “onward”

     and yet- when time trickles low-

     kneeling, wonder,

          “wherefore.”

.

Wherefore place an icon made

     (like us only in its fade)

     of substance age-old, ever-new:

     Ambition dressed as Holy Muse?

 

Second, the spoken word: 

 

Finally, a brief word of explanation: 

I found myself forcing creativity today, working to compose a piece of music without passion. I was inspired only by the thought that if I finish this, it will be another successful accomplishment to my credit.

But as I realized that selfish ambition was my main motivation (at the moment), I was deeply convicted. Why create at all if what compels me is untempered ambition? What profits it to climb what a favorite author of mine calls “the Alpine Path” if I seek only to plant my lonely, temporal banner at its peak?

And, as in most moments of intense emotion, poetry happened. In scribbling and speaking this poem, I was able to recall why I write and compose: not to glorify myself but, as in the parable, to be a faithful steward of my talents. To do this, I must write to the best of my ability to reflect the true Author and pray that my words will direct minds toward the living Word.

Literary Madness: A Dangerous Disease Affecting Readers Everywhere

It’s over. It is finished. No, wait… one more annotation. Now. Now it is finished. But it isn’t! Arghhh!!!
I know it is considered bad writing to use numerous exclamation marks, but I suffer from a fever that only excessive use of them can cure! (See, that sentence did not even need one, but my current state of excitement made me put it there despite the protests of my inner editor! Ahh! Another! And another!)

Okay… I am calm again. I suppose I should explain the cause of my outburst, but to do that, I will have to diagnose and define an illness particular to bookworms like myself: Literary Madness.

This disease features symptoms such as screaming in shock, questioning the meaning of humanity and existence in general, spontaneous bouts of crying, irrational anger towards fictional characters, and the inability to stop annotating or quoting. Attacks of Literary Madness are triggered by in-depth reading and analyzing of any piece of writing that leads to an unnaturally high level of emotion and thought. These attacks come generally without warning and can last for as little as three seconds or as long as weeks. There is, as of yet, no definite cure, for like writer’s block and writer’s despair, Literary Madness is brushed aside as a pseudo-disease by medical professionals. (However, my elevated heart rate and pounding headache indicate that it is more serious than they believe! <- snap, there’s another exclamation mark…deep breaths, Ryanne…) However, for any unfortunate reader who falls victim to an attack of L.M., it has been found that symptoms may be eased by taking a solitary walk, lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling fan, watching paranormal documentaries on Netflix (or British dramas, if those are not your cup of tea), and perusing satirical memes on Pinterest.

Okay, now that we’ve established what Literary Madness is, I believe that it is obvious that I am suffering from a severe case of it. Granted, my entire life seems to be one continuous attack of L.M., but right now it has peaked and I am displaying nearly every symptom. (I have not yet screamed aloud, mostly because my family has company…) What has brought on this attack? The answer is one word, one book, and a multitude of implications, thoughts, questions, and emotions: Frankenstein.

I realize that I called this book an “Intellectual” in my last post, and while my label remains unchanged, I have found a morbid pleasure in rereading it, unveiling allusions I previously missed, tackling questions I had scribbled in its margins, and wondering about its connections to the author, to me, to humanity. Do you see now why my mind was in such a whirl? I am by no means calling Frankenstein the epitome of literary greatness, but it raised so many questions about what it means to be human, what defines good and evil, and what mankind’s position in the universe is, how can I help my mind from dancing and pondering every possible implication of its words? How can I help using exclamation points?!?!

If you’ve survived my rant to this point, I offer my sincerest thanks. Not many people can handle an attack of Literary Madness themselves, let alone that of another person. If you’ve continued reading to this point, I offer my sincerest apologies, for you too probably are afflicted with this disease. If you don’t believe me, try reading Frankenstein; I can guarantee you will, in one way or another, have your first attack of Literary Madness.