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This poetry challenge comes from poet Roy E. Peterson: Provide a poem about your inspiring Muse. If you name a Muse, put it in a poet’s note at the bottom of your poem. If it is someone living, you need not reveal their name. For those who do not claim a Muse inspires them, you may write on mythical, historical, spiritual, or religious Muses who have inspired others. Post yours in the comments section below.
Here is my example:
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My Lady of Light
by Roy E. Peterson
I kneel down before my Lady of Light.
Her accolades shower my shoulders with praise.
No more in the dark woods shall wander this Knight.
The touch of her sword my honor repays.
A true heart by heaven has never been blessed
By just such an angel to love and adore.
The rose that I gave, to her bosom she pressed;
Fealty forever to her I have sworn.
My mission is, as a Knight-errant, to love,
Protect, and defend my Lady of Light,
To fight in the duels she would be proud of.
With sword strokes of justice, great evil I’ll smite.
Till Elysian Plains are brought into my view,
I’ll always be Champion, Knight-errant of you.
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Poet’s Note: My Muse is married to another person and lives in Dallas, Texas. We were close at our university. We have shared our secret love. I have an entire poetry book, “My Lady of Light Awaits Her Knight,” dedicated to her from which this poem was taken.
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Post yours in the comments section below.
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Earlier, I provided some of the Muses of poets. This continues that story with some Muses of other literary figures.
Famous Literary Muses:
1. Charles Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) was inspired to write his classic, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by a real 10-year-old, Alice Pleasance Liddell.
2. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’ Muse was Charlotte von Stein, a German writer. He wrote a poem directly to her, “To Charlotte von Stein.”
3. James Joyce and Nora Barnacle Nora crossed paths with James Joyce on Nassau Street in Dublin. Joyce was smitten by her copper haired beauty and they arranged to meet again on the 16th of June, now known as Bloomsday to devotees of the author’s magnus opus, Ulysses. (She masturbated him under a bridge on their first date.) They eloped from Dublin and went to Trieste. (Reference: “Irish Stew Podcast.)
4. Charles Dickens with Ellen Lawless Ternan. “In the 1850s Dickens had become increasingly dissatisfied with his wife, Catherine. Catherine had borne ten children and had grown quite stout and lethargic….. Dickens met the Ternans, Maria, Fanny, Ellen, and their widowed mother, Frances, during rehearsals for Wilkie Collins’ play The Frozen Deep in August 1857….. The forty-five-year-old Dickens became enamored with the youngest of the sisters, eighteen-year-old Ellen, called Nelly. Soon rumors of Dickens’ indiscretions were rampant and he battled them by severing friendships and business relationships with anyone who didn’t see things his way. (Source: The Charles Dicken Page, “The Mystery of Ellen Ternan.”)
5. Jane Austen and Tom Lefroy. Thomas Langlois Lefroy was an MP for Dublin University, Privy Councillor of Ireland and Lord Chief Justice of Ireland. In 1796, Lefroy began a flirtation with Jane Austen, friend of an older female relative. Some have suggested it may have been Lefroy “whom Austen had in mind when she invented the character of Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, as the courtship between Tom Lefroy and Jane Austen took place over the year or so that Pride and Prejudice was written.” (Source: “Thomas Langlois Lefroy.” Wikipedia.)
MY MERCIFUL MUSE
By Roy E. Peterson
My merciful Muse of poetry
Gave golden gifts to me.
As I wished for words of romance,
My Muse put me in a trance.
How could I such great words refuse?
I put the words of love to use.
Her vivid words my poems infuse.
I am grateful for my midnight Muse.
POETS AND THEIR MUSES
By Roy E. Peterson (January 13, 2022)
Poets and their Muses have become legendary.
I studied Greek Muses in a myth commentary.
Calliope was the Muse of epic poetry.
Eros was as erotic as a goddess can be.
Muses are a figment of our imagination,
But they are the central core of our cogitation.
Without my mystic Muse my words would be moribund.
My verses would be aimless and likely would be shunned.
I have been fixated on a Muse that comes to me
To share my darkest hours and inspire poetry.
She is a girl I once knew. I keep her picture close.
If I need inspiration, she helps me be verbose.
I feel her presence and the quickening of my heart.
She helps me with my rhyme schemes and tells me where to start.
My Muse often comes to me sometimes when I’m asleep.
She takes my hand and leads me where dreams of love are deep.
Poet Note:
I have recorded some dreams of her.
MY MUSE, MY SOULMATE, MY LOVE
By Roy E. Peterson (February 10, 2018)
My hope is for each man and woman
That someday they’ll find that one
Who embodies everything in life
When all is said and done.
Then far beyond this mortal realm
In Elysian paradise.
The combination of their souls
Will fully crystallize.
The search may take a lifetime
Though once when they were young,
They were near each other,
But the right song stayed unsung.
Hardships on a dusty journey
Finally give us wisdom
To understand the joys we missed
In search of some great kingdom.
A memory keeps haunting us
That we’ve been thinking of,
Throughout the world we wandered–
My Muse, My Soulmate, My Love.
MY MUSE IS WHO?
By Roy E. Peterson (February 17, 2019)
I have talked of Muses
In several poems before.
Perhaps if you are guessing
The clues you should ignore.
It could be a composite
That I am writing of
Melding all the thoughts into
An idyllic kind of love.
If you seek an answer
To who became my Muse,
I will help decipher
One of my hidden clues.
It may be in a word or two
That make a subtle difference.
Did I use words “is,” or “was,”
The present or the past tense?
I don’t mean to be obtuse.
I don’t mean to be unkind,
But if you study all of them,
I think my Muse you’ll find.
A SUDDEN BURST OF INSPIRATION
By Roy E. Peterson (May 23, 2025)
A sudden burst of inspiration
Came out of the blue.
I felt a Muse had lit a spark
And I felt fresh anew.
It seemed as if my golden years
Finally passed away.
My mind had been transported
To a former day.
The words came pouring out
In their simplicity
Whilst lying deep within
Was sheer simplicity.
Five poems thus were writ
To form my legacy.
So judge them well my friend
For they are part of me.
My earthly Muse passed away August 12, 2025. She was my angel on earth and now inspires me from heaven. I wrote these last two love sonnets about her.
MY MUSE MY LOVE
Love Sonnet #364
By Roy E. Peterson (August 13, 2025)
My Muse, My Love from earth has departed.
She left for heaven. I’m brokenhearted.
During this week she became heaven bound.
Her spirit will be gone, not in the ground.
We had a love that lasted through the years.
I’m devastated in this “vale of tears.”
Never have I ever felt such a grief.
Nothing here on earth can bring me relief.
The one I dream of each cold lonely night
Has left this world; an angel taking flight.
My one prayer is I’ll get to heaven too.
Then we’ll be together and love renew.
I know she’ll be waiting by heaven’s gate.
Our love’s foreshadowed as our eternal fate.
MY MUSE INSPIRED ME
Love Sonnet #365
By Roy E. Peterson (August 14, 2025)
While I wrote sonnets of admiration,
My Muse gave me daily inspiration.
Some sonnets I wrote with trepidation
Yet she conferred on me commendation.
She would send me words of encouragement.
She was my soulmate and knew what I meant.
She always could decipher my intent.
My Muse Mistress I felt was heaven sent.
Perhaps my last love sonnet to survive
Comes with number three hundred sixty-five.
My guiding Muse is no longer alive.
She passed away and they could not revive.
My candle burned out leaving only night.
My Muse passed away, headed toward the light.
So heartbreaking! But yet, what a grace it was for you to have her for the time you did! And, of course, the hope of reunion in heaven!
I really love this one, Susan. You are a tremendous wordsmith! I tend to settle for “good enough”, but you always find the optimum word for any situation!
Fickleness of the Muse Limerick
A muse is an inconstant thing,
sometimes in your lughole she’ll sing.
Inspiring ideas
kill writer’s block fears –
just pray she’s not having a fling.
Funny limerick, Paul, but I suspect that is how many feel about their Muse.
My dark lady lovely lies
upon our wedding bed.
Cherry red silk and satins white,
An angel, seems I’ve wed.
But of her virtues, I adore
her piety much more.
A faithful wife who can repay?
Till that last day has come
I’ll sing her praises, satisfied
Always in her love.
What a beautiful heartfelt addition to the Muse challenge that you can actually share with your wife. You have been blessed and blessed us with your Muse response.
Thank you Roy. Heartfelt is a one of the platitudes I use to describe things that have little merit, but I’ll assume you are a better person than I. 🙂 In all seriousness, I am so glad to have recently found the SCP.
Two final tributes to my Muse who died August 12, 2025, and I now think of as my Angel Muse in heaven.
YOU HAVE ALWAYS DAZZLED ME
By Roy E. Peterson
I am certain up in heaven
There will be no jealousy.
Though angels who have lived up there
May wish that they were me.
Your radiant beauty reflecting
Like an azure crystal sea
Will be the next star up in heaven
Shining endlessly.
Your radiance and your beauty
That have always dazzled me
I pray are mine to have and hold
Throughout eternity.
WHEN ALL MY DAYS HAVE FADED
By Roy E. Peterson
When all my days have faded,
When evening sun is gone,
I have one star to guide me;
There’s one I gaze upon.
Past the moon’s reflection,
Past this mortal place,
There is a star in heaven
Way out there in space.
Though her light may seem faint,
There’s a twinkle in her eye.
When I long to see her,
I stare up at the sky.
So glad your muse is still with you, Roy, and chivvying you along with your creative endeavours.
Your challenge got me thinking. Many of those who I loved and who have passed, inspire me from afar, urging me to find the right words, to express the right phrases and to put across better-expressed ideas and emotions than might be possible if they weren’t still with me.
May the Almighty bless you both.
Bless you, Paul, and thank you for your kind words. Being inspired by someone else in our lives, as you expressed, means we are sensitive to others and feel it in our hearts. I have great respect for that as you have shown.
She
‘s his perpetual blind
date; seldom turns up; they never
kiss and, should he ask her name,
she’ll answer with a curious half-smile.
Frail vessels he brings, cat’s¬-
cradles of words to collect her essence in –
like water in a sieve, she laughs
and slips away, leaving a sparkling froth.
She flirts with scientists, philosophers
(letting the biggest fools believe they’ve won her)
but he, the poet, is her true
and only Fool, happy to fail and fail . . .
not happy, no – but then he has no choice
in the matter, she being his, and he her, voice.
“Cat’s cradles of words” meshed with “water in a sieve” are great descriptors of such an imaginary Muse “essence.” What a fun concept from her “flirt” to his “no choice,” making me, the reader believe the Muse captured the poet and not the other way around.
I CAPTURED MY CAPTIVATING MUSE
By Roy E. Peterson (September 1, 2025)
I believe in my own mind I captured my Muse.
She was captivating. I put her to good use.
She would extract me from my wordless stupor noose.
Then she helped clarify and not be so obtuse.
I could get into trouble when she turned me loose.
Although I had captured her, she was like a deuce;
A card that was wild and she could be quite profuse.
I respected her and I always shared her views.
She supported me and then helped me to produce.
She would coddle me and became my mind masseuse.
She implored me never to make a poor excuse.
Just to keep on writing and let readers deduce.
More Often Than Not
Amuse her between the covers, you
must loll about the linen with delight
disheveled in whimsy: so do lovers
in words, in deed, seem and might be.
Uproot from the letters you have aligned
any nonsense: a dark and stormy write
flops upon the page, struggles to find a
natural rhythm, and veers slightly
in angles obtuse, spasmodic and dense.
So filigree your lines, and plait a chain
to charm those gnarled knots, without pretense,
the sole unique you seek to entertain.
The sounds you set must woo in perfect pitch,
fall and rise clearly, along the timbre
line in dulcet tones, pure and rich ~
nothing harsh, nothing to halt or hinder.
Your playful purpose is to create, frame
an image that’s sound in each sense: love whole
looming durable beyond all disclaim,
blooming indelible upon her soul.
My muse has been and always will be my wife, Shoshana. I believe all poets should have “an other” who balances their soft idiocy and feral craziness with common sense and direct to the heart questions, such as, “What the heck does line 3 mean???!!”
I also believe words are to play and to instruct (the old Horace chestnut). Why write if it is only to scratch an itch???
It’s good to be back in the saddle again. And pray for our dear friend’s quick recovery (Daniel Kemper, a brace of kinsmen to me).
The Able Muse
My Sun alights the barren lowlands,
Pouring dawn across the plain,
Coating newborn day, below hands
Bearing it, by gentle strain;
It shares what my own heart may channel,
Etching, with its glowing ink,
Pages of a grassy annal
All I bleed for, bless, and think.
I push the letters, force their shaping,
Through those shafts, as by a drill
Piercing stone with labored scraping,
Yielding one gem for my skill.
The folk that prairie roam, in glancing,
Scoff at gifts for which I toil;
Seeking else a gleam entrancing,
They forsake my fairest spoil.
I cannot face them; eyes averted,
I collect and keep each prize;
Woe to watch my strife deserted,
Gaze I then toward the skies:
Upon the peaks, forgot through ages –
Focused long at efforts failed –
Waits the pinnacle of sages,
Ancient, and by mist-rime veiled:
Emblazoned after years unmeasured
Biding in the heights unseen,
Hails my Sun, his beacon treasured,
Basking in my welcome sheen.
I recognize his garments, flowing
As he taught my stifled flare,
Loosing rays to passion throwing,
Showing brilliance left of care;
He sang to me, in even pattern,
Yet, with such a flagrant ease,
Like the binds of haloed Saturn
Scattered by the formless breeze,
Performing for my Sun and only,
Those who mulled beneath, ignored,
Flourishing his heart – though lonely,
Bracing mine with clear a chord;
Now, upon his mountain, shining,
Cast I all my brilliance pent,
For but his acclaim, combining
Every mote, in freedom spent.