What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The muse lies like a hollow shell wasted by consumption. It rises feebly for a moment, lifts its head, looks around, then is seized by a wracking cough and falls again in terminal weakness. Ironically, so did two young branches of my ancient family tree pass on–their graves lie a few miles down the road, under autumn leaves in the yard of the abandoned church. Plucked away in the flower of youth. I know nothing about them. Perhaps my creative side comes to the same pass.

One wonders where a muse goes to die. What causes it to starve, when adversity so often makes it thrive and grasp at defiant expression?

I’ve never known. It’s a ghost anyway. Comes and goes with a shudder and a knocking in the night, like now, for instance. Continue reading →