An Old poem: "Grinding Axes with My Muse"

 

Grinding Axes with My Muse

 

Whenever I have an axe to grind

I call upon my Muse, and together

we work it out in words. I hold my axe

to the grindstone, and my Muse turns

the wheel; and the more we grind my axe,

the better I feel. But when my axe becomes

so sharp that it cuts like a razor, my Muse

takes my axe away from me and cuts

my heart in two, and I spill my blood

for the world to drink. I watch my heart’s

blood flows into my every word, but I

no longer feel the pain because my Muse

has severed my head from my heart. My

head is as light as air, and my thoughts

are no longer mine; but every word pours

out my life because my Muse has initiated

me once again into the cult of the poet’s art,

and I bleed to my heart’s desire.

 

Composed in Nipigon, Ontario

Date unknown.