The Muse

- by: Narinder Gill

With a thrust of each stroke
My pen strikes the page with calm intensity
But tell me Lord – how can I describe thee?
What vision could hold the fearful beauty?
What cup could contain thy volume?
Whose hand could paint a picture in your likeness?
What word could possible convey your meaning,
O’ Lord?
What, water everywhere… but not a drop to drink.
Immersed in this omniscient ocean, but to tell of it I cannot think… …
Is there a pen that can write with this invisible ink?
I doubt there is any that can put even a stain.

Is my plight therefore for no gain?
Do I write in vain?
When such thoughts abate
I feel f funeral in my brain.
At an impasse my pen stands still
Struck with awe, your sublime skill.
Let the rift open up with you inspiration
Let it flood every pure of my meager imagination
Fill my lungs Lord and let me breathe to all nations
Let me sing of your splendour, father of all creation.

Yet bound am I in this form of humankind
A sip of you is too much for my infant mind
Still you surround me, at every turn of the head
And every flicker of the eye – I’m cough
Your silence teases me. And mocks my every thought.
Alas my muse, my perfect muse
You leave me dazed and confused
I’m inspired by you and fired by you
But to explain – I don’t know how.
I concede defeat and put down my pen
This poem will do for now.