the smedley log - suburban scrawl

To be the muse of just one bad verse

It is Easter. I am Christian, so of course I celebrate the rising of Christ. The thing is, while He may be risen, I have been totally worn down the past few days since having multiple wisdom teeth extracted.

One side of my face is disproportionately swollen. While it no longer hurts to chew per se, the swelling is a bit more than uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I attempted ham dinner with my family this afternoon. I even survived it.

In the spare time induced by missing work on Thursday and Friday (when I wasn’t in too much agony to use a computer), I attempted to add to my pain by working on a website project I’ve been struggling with for the past few weeks. It’s for my local union’s website. While I may not be the ultimate web developer, I firmly believe the results of my effort will represent a vast improvement in the quality and function of said website. But, oh, the pain of the process. Thankfully, it should be over soon. If only I had the same confidence with my aching jaw.

Extraction day (formerly known as Thursday) was quite harrowing, but things seemed to be looking up on Friday. So I tempted fate by heading into town for a taste of the Philly Film Festival with a random film society member who offered me some tickets. I saw three films (in succession). It didn’t seem too challenging at the time, but by Saturday morning, I wasn’t feeling well at all. Thankfully, Sunday has been a lot better to me (so far).

Getting to the final twist in this winding post, I was recently reminded that April is National Poetry Month, which left me wondering why I haven’t been able to write any decent poetry in a while. I sketched a few drafts on Thurs… er, Extraction night, but the mood was looking darker with each line.

Fortunately, a fine example of poetry is on display at Marisa’s. It was written by her mother, who recalls her childhood reactions to a homeless man in Philly. Since I was in a generally melancholy mood as I was reading it, the poem eventually caused me to ruminate on one of the following questions:

• a. Why haven’t we solved the scourge of homelessness yet in this, one of the world’s most affluent cultures?
• b. Whatever happened to the cardboard box man to whom young Marisa was reacting?
• c. Why hasn’t anyone (that I know of) ever written a poem about me?

If you guessed a or b, you clearly overestimate my ability to consider the plights of others while in acute pain. On the other hand, if you guessed c, you deserve the prize (not that I’m offering one).

It occurred to me that while I’ve written poems about other people I’ve encountered, I don’t believe I’ve ever been the muse of someone else’s verse. Which brings me to today’s question:

Has anyone ever written poetry about you?

It doesn’t have to be a great work of literature. It could be an old boyfriend composing really cheesy material about how you rocked his world. O maybe something by a family member (like your mom, for instance). It might even be a song by a garage band from your past. I’m just curious to hear from anyone out there who’s played the muse. And if so, what did it feel like?

the swelling and pain will go down soon…in the meantime, ice helps.

i didn’t know it was national poetry month. i’ve been inspired and have inspired poetry.

happy easter.

Not so much as a vowel has been put to work in my honor as well. Perhaps the subject matter is simply insufficient to inspire. I shudder to think it could be so.

Hope the jaw heals quicker than your ego.

Ah, Howard, Extraction Day. That sounds almost existential.

Good questions you pose. It is astonishing that we have so much homelessness among so much wealth. I wonder how much war money it would take to solve that whole thing.

I have had a poem written about me. And I have written them about others…it just helps to hang around poets like I did in my hippie phase, which came in midlife. Even poets eventually run out of things to write about and go with proximity.

Ally and Frank – Fascinating! So I have muses both male and female already.

What I really want to know is more detail (if you don’t mind). I’m curious what the situation was, what kind of poem, how it made you feel to be “objectified.” I won’t beg too much, but that would go a ways toward satisfying my core curiosity.

And I know there are more folks out there with stories to share…

Bice – I’d offer my condolences for your not being some poet’s inspiration, but since we have that in common, I think you’re in pretty good company

They wrote an Irish ballad about someone with my name, does that count? If not, I figure it must be neat to caused someone’s inspiration. At least it seems like that to me.

a) Maybe we haven’t solved the scourge of homelessness precisely because we see it as something our affluence ought to be able to fix. Has not our affluence actually created the problem, e.g., by driving up rents, prices, &c?

b) I have no idea…

c) Be careful what you wish for…

Hope you heal super fast!