To Sappho On Muses
So, tell me then Sappho, what is art?
And how did you think to write it?
Men inspire me and always have
But Catullus needed his Lesbia, Dante his Beatrix,
For women are the muses aren't they?
And men the beating, vibrant heart that do the bloody business
Of making art.
I suppose my question is this, Sappho,
What makes a Muse?
I'm fairly certain that we don't choose them any more than those we fall in love with.
And after Keats, Rosetti et al a woman almost fallen,
Is the perfect choice, because isn't this all about sex and sexual tension?
I hardly like to mention your hymn to Aphrodite was religious
Better to go about my business.
The two men who inspire me most, Sappho,
I would happily take to bed, were they free, which they are not
But I suppose that I forgot it's the tension not the sex itself.
Perhaps I should mention, I've had a lot of sex,
And fallen in love, once or twice,
It is not every one of those who makes me write.
So, Sappho, I am left with my question,
What makes a Muse?
What makes me write it down?
What made them go from collaborator, to inspiration?
A moment out of time,
One took his clothes off, the other spoke,
And both ignited me.
Sappho, did you ever try to explain it?
And watch the disappointment paint itself across their faces?
That the simple act of dogs barking
Was enough for you.
That one spoke, the other stripped
And in fact were both just some bloke
Who caught me in the act of seeing Gods.
I see divinity in plastic bags in the wind, Sappho,
And to some that isn't art.
In fact I can hear one of my Muses start to complain
Even as I try to explain it is his face I disappoint now,
His love of oils and Raphael, whereas I work previous to that
And further on, the other rolls his eyes
And corrects my grammar.
Oh tell me Sappho, what is art?
And what is poetry too?
And when you told her you loved her did she love you
Or was it only held in your heart, your head,
Did you write what words you'd said
Or only those you never spoke?
Caught in the act of seeing Gods by some bloke for two thousand years.
Sappho, I've returned to the start I suppose,
What is the bloody beating heart of the business of making art?
In Emin I think I found it all,
That contrary part of installation which is open to all
And rejected by all but a few,
Oh but I owe Tracey too, I crawled into her tent and saw
What I didn't know I was looking for: her, and that was my numinous wonder.
Men inspire me Sappho, when they turn to look,
And there's the contradiction,
There's the art, the heart of the matter,
I do this by the book - reversed,
They have not rehearsed their gaze, but turn it on me,
And I do not deny them, an act both expected
And rejected within feminism and art.
Oh don't you start Sappho,
Your fragments are just as divisive as your wit incisive
And installation is inclusive and portrayed as exclusive
And round we go,
So, tell me, because I'm sure you know
What is art? And who the muse?
And how can people say they pick and choose?
I am looked upon Sappho,
And I stare right back into oil paintings and frescoes upon walls beginning to crack
And you and I and we will be forever divided,
By a couple of thousand years of respect
But I've found your numen in the dogs barking in the street,
In a look from a bloke from King's Lynn
And in naked conversation by the other's feet.
And how did you think to write it?
Men inspire me and always have
But Catullus needed his Lesbia, Dante his Beatrix,
For women are the muses aren't they?
And men the beating, vibrant heart that do the bloody business
Of making art.
I suppose my question is this, Sappho,
What makes a Muse?
I'm fairly certain that we don't choose them any more than those we fall in love with.
And after Keats, Rosetti et al a woman almost fallen,
Is the perfect choice, because isn't this all about sex and sexual tension?
I hardly like to mention your hymn to Aphrodite was religious
Better to go about my business.
The two men who inspire me most, Sappho,
I would happily take to bed, were they free, which they are not
But I suppose that I forgot it's the tension not the sex itself.
Perhaps I should mention, I've had a lot of sex,
And fallen in love, once or twice,
It is not every one of those who makes me write.
So, Sappho, I am left with my question,
What makes a Muse?
What makes me write it down?
What made them go from collaborator, to inspiration?
A moment out of time,
One took his clothes off, the other spoke,
And both ignited me.
Sappho, did you ever try to explain it?
And watch the disappointment paint itself across their faces?
That the simple act of dogs barking
Was enough for you.
That one spoke, the other stripped
And in fact were both just some bloke
Who caught me in the act of seeing Gods.
I see divinity in plastic bags in the wind, Sappho,
And to some that isn't art.
In fact I can hear one of my Muses start to complain
Even as I try to explain it is his face I disappoint now,
His love of oils and Raphael, whereas I work previous to that
And further on, the other rolls his eyes
And corrects my grammar.
Oh tell me Sappho, what is art?
And what is poetry too?
And when you told her you loved her did she love you
Or was it only held in your heart, your head,
Did you write what words you'd said
Or only those you never spoke?
Caught in the act of seeing Gods by some bloke for two thousand years.
Sappho, I've returned to the start I suppose,
What is the bloody beating heart of the business of making art?
In Emin I think I found it all,
That contrary part of installation which is open to all
And rejected by all but a few,
Oh but I owe Tracey too, I crawled into her tent and saw
What I didn't know I was looking for: her, and that was my numinous wonder.
Men inspire me Sappho, when they turn to look,
And there's the contradiction,
There's the art, the heart of the matter,
I do this by the book - reversed,
They have not rehearsed their gaze, but turn it on me,
And I do not deny them, an act both expected
And rejected within feminism and art.
Oh don't you start Sappho,
Your fragments are just as divisive as your wit incisive
And installation is inclusive and portrayed as exclusive
And round we go,
So, tell me, because I'm sure you know
What is art? And who the muse?
And how can people say they pick and choose?
I am looked upon Sappho,
And I stare right back into oil paintings and frescoes upon walls beginning to crack
And you and I and we will be forever divided,
By a couple of thousand years of respect
But I've found your numen in the dogs barking in the street,
In a look from a bloke from King's Lynn
And in naked conversation by the other's feet.