What is the mortal poet without a Muse? Is he not an unspirited and aimless Cassandra--though prophet, gaining the ear of none?
But, nay--it's absurd to conceive of such a creature as a poet; for guides the pen, the mind, the soul of that Creative Being something higher still.
Yet, a word of caution: sacrifice not every creative thought to a single Muse--divide your faith, pilgrim of Truth! Aye, one must be wary of being too
faithful too, for there remains the constant threat of stagnancy looming over his inner-mind's ambition of immortality like an awful shadow. The poet, should he with this third eye look at (and into) himself too (as he should), will learn when certain Muses must be quit.
And so have I, impressionable poet though I am, reached this conviction. Though I normally disdain from speaking for my works (for I hope they speak for themselves!), my latest work "あばよ、山娘" (i.e.
, "Abayo, yamamusume") concludes a collection of works titled "K.C." (found here: shinato-kawasaki.deviantart.co…
). As I have of late spoken about my confidence in my recent growth, these works serve as a true testament of it; these works, with the help of my Muse, have summoned every creative fancy with such sophistication that they may even serve, to some extent at least, a true start of my so-called poetic youth (for dream do I at times, within my inner-mind, that should my name be remembered at all for my poetry, that these works serve as some early sign of some creativity within some boy!). I indeed consider these works to have some significance; and should you wish to discover the welled sentiments within my latest poem, I do suggest you consult them first.
But one must not stagnate as I have! I have, in more recent days, been reminded quite severely of my inadequacies as a poet; and while at first the realization was a bit disillusioning but blank, I have been taught well by the great masters before me of how
I err. I conceive of myself as a child with adult ambitions; thus, my projects, though grand in intention, are often executed poorly. I have yet to learn to channel my creative energies in a manner that speaks an untiring word.
What do I mean? Let me retrogress a bit: poetry has always been for me a catharsis of sorts; but as I've hinted in my last entry, I lack the temperance to make most of such a phenomenon. Thus, it passes through me in episodes: like an unnamed cloud, providing a weathered soul shade, but soon to pass forgotten and unthanked. These works of mine in their stubborn (albeit colorful) subjectivity suffers this very fate: they speak a message today which tomorrow is forgotten--or, worse--they speak a language which is only understood by me! My third eye! How narrowly it sees!
But, this shall change; my Muses unnamed command it. For to call myself a poet, first I must learn to write poetry! Thus, for the time being, I shall quit blank verse (except my works for The Meditations on Childhood); for I as a poet am not ready for such heavy freedom; first I must bear better the heaviest freedom as a poet: rhyme. And so, once I have studied rhyme and, thereafter, blank verse, may I return to it (should I find myself having any business with it, too, that is).
For now, dear Reader, patience! for cometh anon the long-sought Light!