The Muse Transplant


from the ABC set Conversation With My Thirteen-Year-Old Self

The poet is lying on the operating table,
burning beneath a surgical spotlight.
Her body is covered in a sterile white shroud
with its square window thrown open.

Her ribcage is splayed in a spread-eagle,
each slender bone-feather reclining onto the cover.
The scalpel-wielders gather as mourners,
their glittering eyes hovering above sea-green masks.

The first incision is made. The knife slides
silently down the gaudy leather satchel of the pericardium.
Solemn, latexed fingers reach in
to pull away the sticky, maroon wrapping…

A chorus of gasps! The rumours were true.
There, curled in the poet's left ventricle, is the muse.
But he will not stir. The surgeon furrows his brow;
this one's been gone some time - lucky they're not too late.

Now all that is left is his stringy, reptilian form,
still clinging to the trunk of the pulsating aorta.
This ectopic angel has served his purpose,
now he must be removed from his womb-shaped room.

The surgeon swoops down with his glinting forceps
and pinches the muse's tiny skull like a glass marble
between finger and thumb. He peels away so easily
like rotting skin, is hoisted up, dangling for all to see.

This is the crippled muse. The one that just stopped speaking.
No prayers can be said for him now; he is disposed of
in a waiting jar of murky Viaspan where he glows
like lazy pond weed. The jar is moved to a shelf across the room.

The new muse arrives, self-important, in his little tub of ice.
He is still sleeping but his golden skin quivers with his own
fluttering heartbeat. The surgeon cradles him in smooth-gloved hands;
this, he says, is inspiration's El Dorado. This is the Holy Grail.

He gently slips the muse onto the moist, dark-red bed.
He rolls towards the thundering artery for his lullabies.
Already the poet's lips begin to curl,
the colour returns to her cheeks.

Satisfied, the surgeon begins to stitch the dripping ceiling
above the slumbering muse's head, knowing that soon
his shining eyes will open. Soon he will begin to whisper.
Now the poet has reclaimed her poetry,

just as Lazarus got to his feet,
just as the phoenix lifts her head from the ashes.

Discuss this piece in the abctales forum


Comments

MistakenMagic | December 10, 2009 - 15:19

OMG!!! This must be the fastest cherry I've ever had! THANK YOU CHERRY FAIRIES :P

Magic xxx

Kilb50 | December 10, 2009 - 20:40

Mistaken - An excellent transplant! Particularly enjoyed:

This ectopic angel has served his purpose...

and

...he is disposed of
in a waiting jar of murky Viaspan where he glows
like lazy pond weed.

Congrats on the cherry!

Curse of 222 | December 10, 2009 - 20:59

have you been storing this one up? the last couple poems have been short...then bang! long poem, here you go. this is excellent with too many "stand out" lines to quote.
if any poem ever deserved a pineapple, this is it!

jason

Nathan Bednarek | December 10, 2009 - 23:03

'Her ribcage is splayed in a spread-eagle,
each slender bone-feather reclining onto the cover.
The scalpel-wielders gather as mourners,
their glittering eyes hovering above sea-green masks.'

This stanza is my favourite, but the whole poem paints such vivid images in my mind. The imagery is very well thought out and the tone is just perfect for this poem. This is the kind of poem I'd think would be a symbol of a chapter in the writer's life. It's no surprise you got a cherry for it so fast. Well done.

Nathan xox

MistakenMagic | December 10, 2009 - 23:28

Kilb50 - so happy you like it! It was inspired by your wonderful poem 'The poet laid bare' - so I really appreciate such positive feedback ;)

Magic xxx

MistakenMagic | December 10, 2009 - 23:29

Jason - OK, you caught me! I wrote this in October and submitted it to a poetry comp - I didn't hear anything back so I thought I'd post it on its rightful home at ABC :P

Magic xxx

MistakenMagic | December 10, 2009 - 23:30

Nathan - I think that's also one of my favourite stanzas! I'm really glad you love all the imagery!

Magic xxx

Silver Spun Sand | December 10, 2009 - 23:35

Magic, Magic;-)

Tina xxx

MistakenMagic | December 10, 2009 - 23:36

Thank you Tina! I'm just sorry I didn't show you this one earlier! ;)

Magic xxx

Silver Spun Sand | December 10, 2009 - 23:44

;-)

SundaysChild | December 11, 2009 - 04:03

What a fantastic poem, Magic.
A delight to read.

MistakenMagic | December 11, 2009 - 07:52

Thank you Sunday! I know it's a long poem - the longest I've ever written! So thank you for taking the time to read ;)

Magic xxx

WilkyBarKid | December 11, 2009 - 10:40

One thing I have learnt the hard way - and this is general advice for everyone, not a dig at Rebecca - is that poems about writing poetry rarely do well in poetry competitions.

Their appeal is very narrow. Though they may find favour on a site where everyone is an aspiring writer, they do not fare so well in the wider world.

While I can appreciate this in the abstract, as a piece of writing, I feel it would be better if the metaphor were applied to a more universal theme.

In my case, I was told quite bluntly by a panel of poetry judges to 'climb down from my ivory tower'.

A kinder way to phrase this is to encourage writing about more concrete subjects.

MistakenMagic | December 11, 2009 - 16:23

Thanks for the advice WillyBarkid - and I do understand what you are saying. I've read quite a few articles about this in the past.

Although the experience I've had previously hasn't been the same as yours - my poem, 'The Poetry Within Me', which was about writing, got me a commended in the Foyle Young Poet Award.

In regards to a universal theme, I hoped that people could also appreciate the metaphor as an idea of moving from one relationship to another - one lover to another.

But I have taken in what you say about concrete subjects, and I find I only sway to abstract subjects when I haven't written in a while ;)

Magic xxx

Beeme | December 12, 2009 - 22:29

This is amazing Magic, I love all of it. Every line and every image is perfect. Well done, you always stun me with every poem you write. This has become my favourite poem of yours.

My favourite stanza, although it was hard to choose;
'Now all that is left is his stringy, reptilian form,
still clinging to the trunk of the pulsating aorta.
This ectopic angel has served his purpose,
now he must be removed from his womb-shaped room'

Beeme xx

MistakenMagic | December 12, 2009 - 22:34

Wow, thank you Beeme! I think this is a personal favourite too ;)

Magic xxx

threeleafshamrock | December 13, 2009 - 10:32

I just want the name of the surgeon; does he charge much? Brilliant stuff again, as usual...

Chris XXXX

MistakenMagic | December 13, 2009 - 10:52

I think the surgeon's name is God (AKA Stephen Fry) lol I would think his charge is extortionate but you could always try a back-alley op in Thailand? :P Ok... now I really am talking crap! hehe ;)

Magic xxx

threeleafshamrock | December 13, 2009 - 11:36

Crap is good; I get cherries for it ;)

Curse of 222 | December 13, 2009 - 13:19

anyone want to try to write the back alley in thailand version of "the muse transplant"?

jason

MistakenMagic | December 13, 2009 - 17:34

Chris - don't call your work crap! It never fails to make me smile ;)

Jason - go on then! I dare you to write the 'back alley' version! :P

Magic xxx

Curse of 222 | December 14, 2009 - 00:51

i'll see what i can do. no promises, though.

jason

MistakenMagic | December 14, 2009 - 07:58

I have complete faith in you Jason :P

Magic xxx

vidit.chopra | December 14, 2009 - 17:42

yet another marvel from you magic..Here I wrote something for you:
She wrote about guardian angels,
She wrote about infatuations.
She wrote about love,
She wrote about secrets of Wordsworth.
She wrote about writers, she wrote about poets,
She wrote about the pianist and about beauty.
She wrote about perfection as well,
Every time winning our hearts with her perfection.
Cherries were the rewards she got,
MistakenMagic is what she was called.
Her poems made us laugh,
Her poems made us cry,
Her poems made us ponder,
Upon things from floor to sky.
There is a sense of magic,
In everything she writes.
Though she calls herself mistaken magic,
But the truth is she creates magic,
With her pen which is her magic wand,
Which throws out spells of words,
Words which touch the heart and the soul!

How is it??
Vidit xx

MistakenMagic | December 14, 2009 - 18:50

OMG! Vidit! Wow, THANK YOU! I never expected such a lovely poem ;) It was brilliant reading through and remembering which poem/poems you're referring to! I love it :) I had no idea my work had touched you - but I am so, so glad it has. I've never wanted anything more as a poet than to inspire and provoke something, anything in another person! Thank you so much again!

Magic xxxxxx

vidit.chopra | December 15, 2009 - 14:13

Well I am glad I got inspired. Thanks for inspiring. :)
I would love it if you could help me out in cultivating a cherry some day. LOL

Nolan | December 24, 2009 - 21:06

Judging by your poem it should actually be in past tense &&

MistakenMagic | December 27, 2009 - 20:56

Thanks Nolan ;)

Magic xxx