Coy Clio, with half-smile and backward glance, her stance unsecured– she balances time and chance. Reflected in the glass, her image wavers, not quite straight, always moving, she knocks down Fate. She leaves her scent in dusty tombs, and book-filled rooms, and there within a musty cell, a faded ledger in a bin. There are cries from eras long forgotten, she sighs through silk and ships of cotton, whispers through graveyards and dockets, ill-gotten gains and weathered remains of centuries, unexplained. Ask her for enlightenment, not for glory, still she replies there are many untold stories– look at the monuments, partly erased, salted and wind-kissed, the lines spaced unevenly in past’s embrace. And here, a doll, a letter, a locket that falls from a red-splattered pocket— love and connections, a mystery, blood-drenched fields, the history.
This is in response to Ingrid’s dVerse prompt this week to write a poem invoking a muse. Some of you know I have a history book chapter that I need to finish writing (like now), so perhaps a poem about Clio, the muse of history will help. I’m posting this for today’s dVerse Live Open Link Night.
I woke to hear the wind sighing and moaning, the lonely sound of a train whistle at midnight. The house creaked, like a person turning over in bed, trying to get comfortable. The branches of the maple tree tap against the window. I try not to think of Wuthering Heights. I fall back asleep, my bed creaking like the house, as I toss through strange dreams: a woman with a mission, possibly dangerous. She may have been someone I know, in a costume, in disguise. Then there was poetry, lyrical snippets, now forgotten. Perhaps it was all an eerie visit from my muse.