Each writer born must have a muse,
Or so I’m told, for if they do,
And if they should, do they know how
To let it in or haven’t found
A way to hear it whispering
Like mine, who tells me everything,
And always watches after me
To heed the way I ramble free.
For years before I touched a pen,
It’s always loved the little wren
That plays, and sees me in this way,
Both in the dark and light of day.
And when I don’t know what to say,
It doesn’t coddle me per se.
In fact the muse is very wise
Unlike myself when I surmise,
And get in trouble; to the point,
For when it sees I’m out of joint
It doesn’t wear dark robes to judge
Or lets me hang, it doesn’t budge.
And never does it find me dull,
To serve a life without a lull;
This poet’s mind is quite Byzantine
And that’s because the brain is mine.
No other like it will you find;
I never seek, or gravitate.
Just like the charge it acclimates,
The muse is on my family tree;
A special branch; some will agree.
For what it knows is every truth
Since the time of birth & from my youth,
It doesn’t need to pull a tooth.
It doesn’t care for rational,
It loves me unconditional.
From setting moon to rising sun
The Muse, the Mind & I are One.
Hasan Maruf teaches English in DPS STS School, Dhaka. He entertains himself by looking at things from odd angles.