I. Sing to me, O’ Muse,
Of the High-School Prophets
With thoughts so infinite
They pound against their teenaged skulls
To the beat of a migraine
Let them scream their truths all they want
There is no Delphi here
Nobody will believe them
When they say they can see the world burn
II. Sing to me
Of the High-School Helen of Troy
The whole school knows she has a face
That could launch a thousand ships
She just wants to pass chemistry
But how can she
When even the teacher sees her
As a conquest
A prize to be fought for and won
And once they’ve ripped her apart
They’ll call her Temptress, Siren,
Thief of her own childhood.
III. Sing to me
Of the High-School Gods
Vibrant and reckless and young
They may be immortal
But they are not invincible
Hephaestus hobbles on useless legs
Around the autotech garage
While Aries lets Aphrodite kiss his battle scars
Under the bleachers
And Hades walks arm in arm
With a girl so beautiful
He must have stolen her.
Empty lots and shopping malls are their temples.
IV. Sing to me
Of the High-School Heroes
With their football pads and prom queen crowns for armour
The swords are gone
And the hubris is all an act
Their monsters choose a more
Internal battlefield
They don’t get armies
This time,
They fight alone in their heads
Chasing ichor down a bottle
In hopes of becoming divine.
V. Sing to me, O’ Muse,
Of the High-School Poet
Who writes it all down.
My sixteenth summer I played General Siward in a summer camp production of Macbeth.
Pudgy cheeks, round stomach, five foot three- are you sure this is “an older and a better soldier none than Christendom gives out”,
Are you sure that this voice which cracks with disuse like wooden floorboards in an abandoned house can rally together the scottish rebels, can ring like drums and fifes,
Did you cast me in this role because there were none others left, and my parents payed for one?
I never asked the directors because I was too afraid of the answer.
Whatever is was, they must’ve known what they were doing or I must’ve been so much more than they thought I was because I turned three balmy summer nights into Burnham Wood,
I stood center stage and the words gave me muscles I could only dream of having,
I was thunder and fire and a sword raised unashamedly into the air and that is something I could never do when I am myself.
The stage is as much a home to me as my mother’s arms,
And when she asks me how it is possible for me to want to stand before hundreds of people, but dread making a phone call, I think she is forgetting this:
I do not exist onstage.
I am Siward, I am Mariana, I am Juliet and Katarina and any number of people who do not feel that they are being wasteful of other people’s time by speaking.
I write, but it is always princesses and knights and ghosts and dear lord anybody but a quiet girl in suburban virginia.
Anybody but someone who starts to say something only to fade out halfway through when she realizes nobody is listening,
They say my generation has an obsession with being heard, but I don’t think that desire is very new.
It’s reassuring to think that other people recognize your existence and that you are not going to slip off this earth with nothing to prove you were ever there,
So we cling on with ropes woven out of paintings and books and speeches and wars and inventions, and maybe a sixteen year old girl clings on with a poem written at three am because she can not sleep and if she dies before the sun rises, she wants to have something to prove for it.
Maybe, for once, she wants to stand on a stage and have it be her voice that is heard.
In theater we were learning about how all art forms can be connected, so our teacher had us choose a painting from a slideshow and write whatever the heck we wanted to about it. I chose Starry Night, because Van Gogh is so insanely wonderful, and he's probably one of the most amazing writers of all time. So here it is, my story.
The tall grass tickled Vincent’s knees through the fabric of his thin, frayed pants as he wandered off the beaten dirt path and into the lush meadow. It was well into the night, at the hour when everyone in the little town beyond the mountain would be safely tucked into their beds. He chuckled; they probably all thought that it was odd to be out this late, but that was their loss. They would not get to see the wonders he would.
A cool gust of wind wrapped its self around him and he closed his eyes, savoring the shiver that ran down his spine.
Hello, Vincent.
“Hello, my dear. Did you have a nice rest?”
I was afraid you had forgotten your promise.
“How could I, when it’s all I’ve been thinking about all day?”
The grass rustling as she laughed, a smile tugged at Vincent’s lips. Night certainly was endearing.
Vincent had been very well acquainted with Night for as long as he could remember. In fact, his first memory was of watching her shadows dance across his bedroom wall. They talked often, and she would listen to his troubles as he would listen to hers. Many people feared her, shutting themselves inside their houses when she came out. It was quite a shame, really, as her light and her darkness were quite beautiful together. She was among his favorite muses.
“Shall we get started, then?” He asked, taking his supplies out of his satchel.
I am ready when you are.
As he set up his easel and canvas, night smiled down at him warmly. To say that she was infatuated with Vincent would be the greatest understatement of all time; She completely adored every mad little bit of him. He was a true genius who was able to see all the colors of the universe in a way she had never seen a mortal do before. Honestly, he was the one human she spent most of her time watching. She had seen him go through so much in his life; tragedies that would’ve made any other human forget how to see the light. But he used all his pain and sorrow to create works of art that showed that he could still find beauty in a world that was so cruel to him.
Sometimes she wished she was a mortal, so she could wrap her arms around him when he wept, kiss away his tears, and make him feel loved in the way only another human could.
She knew she would never be as important to him as he was to her though. For while he loved her, he also loved the day and the sunflowers, and all his other muses with just as much intensity. His heart would never be completely hers, but tonight, his undivided attention would be.
All set yet?
“Just about…” he dipped his paintbrush in a glob of yellow paint. Putting a hand on his chin, he looked from his canvas to night and back again. “Would you mind doing a favor for me?”
If it is in my power.
“Would you dance for me, dearest? You know how beautiful you are when you dance, and I would love to paint you in all your glory.”
She blushed, her stars burning bright gold. Well, if you insist.
Giggling, she began to sing and twirl around. Her song was slow and peaceful, her movements like that of a ballerina’s as her clouds formed into swirls. Vincent grinned, setting his brush to the canvas. Something was rushing through his veins that wasn’t blood, something made of color and light, something that made his eyes glow brighter than any star.
He felt alive.
Night grinned wider than ever before. She loved it when he got like this, and laughing, she wished that someone was there to paint him.
She picked up her pace, anything to make him smile. The song became lively, and her dancing followed suit; over that land she twirled, jumped, leaped and kicked, cheering and singing as loud as she could. Vincent’s brush danced along with her on the canvas, and bit by bit, a picture developed. Soon, Vincent found himself humming along to her melody.
Muse and artist’s hearts were dancing too, night’s skirt spinning and spinning and spinning, until she was so dizzy that she felt her head would burst, and she flopped back onto a mountain.
She took a minute to breathe, and saw that Vincent was sitting in the grass, eyes half-lidded, with exhaustion. With a chuckle, she reached her hand out and closed his eyes, letting him fall back onto the soft field. Though the painting was not yet finished, he had done enough for the moment. This just meant that they would get to do this again, an idea that she enjoyed quite thoroughly.
His chest rose with each breath as he drifted into his dreams. He was at peace. Night leaned over him and placed a sweet kiss on his rough cheek.
