On poetic inspiration

But when Erato brushed her flowery lute, What strains of sweetness whispered in the wind! Soft as at evening when the shepherd's flute To tones of melting love alone resigned, Breathes through the windings of the silent vale; Complaining accents tremble on the gale, Or notes of ecstacy serenely roll. So when the smiling muse of Cupid sung, Her melody sighed out the sorrowing soul, Or o'er her silken chords sweet notes of gladness rung.

From an Ode to Music by James G. Percival



What sweet confluence of life drives the poet? Who knows. It seems, at best, an erratic Erato, at least for me. I do know that without inspiration, poetry simply does not happen, and that even with it, poetry is very hard work. For "Slice by Slice," my inspiration arose from a situation that brought both exquisite joy and excrutiating frustration to me. Perhaps it was the bringing together of those extremes of emotion that opened the creative floodgates. It did have a definite feeling of something long locked now released. In addition, I am fortunate enough to live in an old summer cottage overlooking the sea. The natural beauty of the area provides imagery on a minute-by-minute, day-after-day basis. But imagery alone does not create poetry. For me the process begins in emotion, and then I seek a likely image from the natural world to express that emotion. In this case, it was the moon. For days, I had watched it grow from the merest of slivers until it had transformed itself into a huge, almost peach-colored orb. When it was full, its path extended from just over the tree line above Long Island in Blue Hill Bay to my front porch. It was a spectacular sight, and it felt every bit the gift that the emotions did to me. And out of them, came "Slice by Slice."