Feu de Joie

My muse

you tell the best tales

each word like a fire arrow 

to set alight the ramparts 

of my imagination 

beneath the red-hot rain

of anecdotes and parables

my defenses crumble 

and I’m writing poems again

instead of sleeping.

Lucky then for me

that I love to stir up the flames

and burn away the night with words

better still if your aim is such

that the pinpricks in the sky

can pierce each star

into the night’s fabric 

and make a constellation of wonder 

shimmering through 

the thread of the tale.

Our friends are curious

what devil’s agreement 

have we entered into

but I do not count the cost

to have you sit with me

at the table of disciples

and feed me crumbs 

from your plate of stories is enough 

for an infinity of days.

I will drink the last drops

of the wine of illusion that I find 

in the cups of clay

and lean against Scheherazade

and laugh and cry and make up myths

in your good company

until necessity sends us 

tumbling back into the bedroom of reality 

where I count every minute 

until we can do it again

awaking in the places

where you drop words 

on me like live coals

in the harbor outside 

of the sea of dreams.

The story telling of Queen Scheherazade to King Shahryar by Anton Pieck