Menagerie of Muses

feel free to change pronouns / descriptors !

now remember, keep your shoulders back. 

you’ve been away too long.

you have some big shoes to fill, young man.

i’ll do my best, sir.

come on, son. chin up.

i don’t want to go here.

i hear we’re going to be roommates. 

he looks like a stiff.

what’s his specialty? bootlicking? 

that’s not my fault.

he flatters me.

don’t you ever dispute me in public! do you understand? 

you do as i tell you. is that clear?

that’s my boy!

why doesn’t he let you do what you want? 

i wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it. 

i don’t care. i don’t give a damn about any of it. 

come along, pal.

slow down, you horrible phalanx of pubescence.

because, believe it or not, each and every one of us in this room is one day going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die. 

seize the day, make your lives extraordinary.

terrible. awful.

that guy could eat a football.

all the good ones go for jerks, you know that.

did you see her naked?

we’re not laying pipe, we’re talking about poetry.

we shouldn’t be doing this.

this is a battle, a war. and the casualties could be your hearts and souls. 

i have a little secret for ya’. huddle up. huddle up! 

we don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. we read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. and the human race is filled with passion. medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. but poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

what will your verse be?

funny, i never pegged you as a cynic.

not a cynic, a realist. 

i doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that.

no shit, sherlock.

i’ll try anything once.

for god’s sake stop chattering and sit down.

cut out the racket in there.

arrrrr, i’m a dead poet.

it was a dark and rainy night, and this old lady, who had a passion for jigsaw puzzles, sat by herself in her house at her table to complete a new jigsaw puzzle. but as she pieced the puzzle together, she realized, to her astonishment, that the image that was formed was her very own room. and the figure in the center of the puzzle, as she completed it, was herself. and with trembling hands, she placed the last four pieces and stared in horror at the face of a demented madman at the window. the last thing that this old lady ever heard was the sound of breaking glass.

i love that story.

come on, you twerp.

are you a man or an amoeba?

for the first time in my whole life i know what i wanna do.

bullshit! nothing’s impossible. 

whose side are you on?

i’m not like you. all right?

i can take care of myself just fine.

to indeed be a god!

you push it, stretch it, it’ll never be enough. you kick at it, beat it, it’ll never cover any of us. from the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it will just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream. 

today’s my birthday.

go have some whiskey, pal. 

hey, would you not worry about your precious little neck? 

it’s for you. it’s god.

wipe that smirk off your face.

assume the position.

i always thought the idea of educating was to learn to think for yourself. 

that was a pretty lame stunt you pulled today. 

there’s a time for daring and there’s a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for. 

don’t you dare talk back to me!

how can you stand it?

i came to apologize for the other night. 

look, i acted like a jerk and i know it. 

you can’t be in here. if they caught you, you’d be in big trouble.

you are so infuriating.

god, i’m so proud of you.

c’mere, you!

wait, wait – what. where are you going?

go on, get some sleep.

i was good. i was really good. 

it’s all right. it’s going to be all right.

oh no! oh, my son! wake up!

calm down, shhh. it’s okay. it’s okay. 

leave him be.

he wouldn’t – he wouldn’t have done it. 

his father killed him. he made him do it.

George Seferis, from Collected Poems; "Memory I" (tr. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)