The Muse [2020]
Part of a series of embroideries and experimental video works I made during the covid pandemic, I printed a poem I wrote on muslin and illuminated it with embroidery. Although I have not exhibited this work, I submitted it in my application to the New York University MFA program in Abu Dhabi.
Her.
I dedicate this to the Muse
A most fickle lover,
My funniest friend.
One of the girls, most loved by the boys,
All eyes downcast when she arrives,
Searching for an excuse to look her squarely in the eye,
Her hair a long, slow-fading sunset,
Her eyes a video game,
Bonus lives if you make her laugh.
Amuse the Muse, that most electrifying subject
Look out now, don’t make her an object.
How is it that she can be everyone’s and no-one’s?
Up all night and yet surrounded by morning,
Leading the darkness and yet
With the day’s dawning she’ll become
One of the girls again, fawning, come in hon.
Braiding your hair, telling you a story.
The wild hearts she’s conquered,
All guts, no glory.
She whips winds of inspiration right into shape,
Haloes for musicians, artists, and poets,
Flower crowns for all their girls at home.
Why won’t she come right to me?
Put her head on my pillow,
Gaze into the leagues of my soul?
Oh Muse!
I grow my hair like yours,
Hide colors under my tongue,
Flash my facets only to the sun god, (are you on first name basis? Is he Helios or Surya to you?)
Try to trace the figure eights of your dancing hips.
Prance in a pool party peacock pareo,
Do you fill yourself with your own longing first?
Dionysian revelers, soaking their feet in ambrosia,
Is there a sip as deep as the one taken from your puce heart?
Oh Muse, I’m not sure if I
Even want to be more like you.
Would I have to get more tattoos?
I’ll become one of the girls again,
But really, how are ya, babe?
I’ll braid my hair like yours,
and tell your story.
Oh, the wild pulses you spur, inspiring mortal musicians
to spew booming bass lines,
accompanying fluorescent whispers,
and dancing with horse-shaped clouds.
...Only to wake up to a blank pillow and a creased brow.
Fever sweats of pomegranate molasses and tingling toes.
All guts. No glory.