1. The Poet and his Muse


    Date: 10/24/2015, Categories: Love Stories, Author: Sisyphus, Rating: 6, Source: LushStories

    closing the door, he sat down at the round oak table and glanced down at the page in his notebook where he had been writing and tried to recall the line he had been saying before the phone rang. He looked at the closed door, aware that Allison was on the other side. Then, suddenly, the words came to him. He remembered the line he was trying to write when she interrupted him. He picked up his pen and wrote it down and found himself unable to stop writing as the next line flowed out from his pen and the next and the next. He was not struggling to write, the words just came, surprising him that he was able to concentrate on the poem and not think about Allison in the next room, or the empty bird feeder, or anything but the sonnet he was writing and suddenly, the poem was finished with a powerful couplet that surprised him. He read it over several times. And know that you control on every page, a lovelier and more significant rage. Jason was thrilled with the sonnet and delighted how he found the poem pouring out of him; the rhymes coming effortlessly. He knew he was eager to read it to Allison later, suddenly thinking about her working in the next room. He felt the strangeness that she was here in his cabin and writing about his poetry. Sitting back in his chair, tugging at his beard, looking out at the trees that surrounded his cabin, he noticed a squirrel on his windowsill searching for any sunflower seeds that might have fallen from the empty feeder, then suddenly he ...
    remembered how it felt when her thigh accidentally touched his and he felt a jolt go through him. Remembering the sensation, another poem grabbed him, forcing him to get it down. He began writing the new poem and knew it was inspired by the feeling of Allison's leg touching his. He couldn’t believe how quickly he was writing, how the lines were flowing, how the rhymes of the new sonnet came easily and inevitably and he wondered what was happening. Usually, he had to labor over every line, cross out words, count the syllables, struggle to get the line right, but now, for some reason he couldn’t explain, the words and lines just poured out of him and within half an hour, he was writing the last few lines of a poem he titled, “One Slight Touch.” I wonder, ignorant still, how, once our senses know, what force, what gay alarm moves through the nerves, decides and instantly, in one slight touch, speaks out such poetry. As soon as he wrote the last word, tears swelled inside of him, a feeling that always swept over him when he knew he had nailed it. He also knew he hadn’t felt that sensation for a long time, and though most of his new poems were well written, successful sonnets, none of them brought the rare sensation he now felt when he finished these last two new poems in a less than an hour. Something was different. While he was typing the poems into his laptop, copying them from his notebook, he glanced up at the clock and saw he had been working for an hour and half, then heard the ...
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