Shelley's Muse poem by Dyfed Lloyd Evans
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Shelley’s Muse
She came as tortured fragmentary dreams
Which birthed to wakefulness
Female form of agonizing grace
Creature of the dark domains
Born out of myth and fantasy
Those tales of firelit candleglow
Unreal, still-embodied, form
A muse of fierce intensity
Searing through the mind and pen
Projected from his darkest passion
Splintered from romantic vision,
Piercing obsidian shard
With raven-dark intensity
A fiery, stony, sophistry
She prowls the cage of mind
This crystal-hearted muse
A counterpoint —
His source of inspiration
With love in all that’s loathed
and loathsome.
Who crimson mouthéd sups
From the chalice of his soul
Taking life, but yielding inspiration!
The gift of exultation!
A fair exchange, perhaps;
This figure pale with interest
Emanating in her poise
Naught but dread vampiric grace
One from a race; long lost
The nosferatu — living death
Who crave your lifeblood
Need your living soul,
The warmth of creativity —
That which differs them from us —
We animals of light,
As they are dreaded succubi of night.
Like you, my haemovoric love
Who drinks your fill of me
At this and every other
End of day
As bowed and bent
I fervently inscribe
This ode to thee, my muse.
Which birthed to wakefulness
Female form of agonizing grace
Creature of the dark domains
Born out of myth and fantasy
Those tales of firelit candleglow
Unreal, still-embodied, form
A muse of fierce intensity
Searing through the mind and pen
Projected from his darkest passion
Splintered from romantic vision,
Piercing obsidian shard
With raven-dark intensity
A fiery, stony, sophistry
She prowls the cage of mind
This crystal-hearted muse
A counterpoint —
His source of inspiration
With love in all that’s loathed
and loathsome.
Who crimson mouthéd sups
From the chalice of his soul
Taking life, but yielding inspiration!
The gift of exultation!
A fair exchange, perhaps;
This figure pale with interest
Emanating in her poise
Naught but dread vampiric grace
One from a race; long lost
The nosferatu — living death
Who crave your lifeblood
Need your living soul,
The warmth of creativity —
That which differs them from us —
We animals of light,
As they are dreaded succubi of night.
Like you, my haemovoric love
Who drinks your fill of me
At this and every other
End of day
As bowed and bent
I fervently inscribe
This ode to thee, my muse.
This poem arises from a confluence of events. Like a good poet I was researching the greats, and had just reached the Romantics. At the same time I was reading a novel by Dan Simmons which (in a mythological sense) looked at the relationship between Byron, Shelley and Keats. This was also influenced by the works of Dr Polidori who accompanied Byron and Keats in Switzerland and was one of the first authors of a vampire story. All this and the legends of the Lamiæ came together in the poem above.
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