Invocation

“What ever happened to Love?” Contemplating the vastness of the sea, the Poet asked the Nymph.

“Dearest Poet, you ask foolish questions. When was the last time you invited Love to dinner?”

Tugging the saffron orange sundress between her legs, the Nymph sat under sea grapes and watched the Poet fly fish.

“Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking that your fly will look like a naturally drifting nymph. Love is a beauteous state of being.” The Poet said pensively.

“Nonsense!”

Nodding and tongue clicking, the Nymph polished her tourmaline pendant with green tender leaves.

“Don’t lose sleep over this,” toes playing with the sand, she winked.

“What do you know about Love, dearest Nymph? Just as you’ll never tie a fly that looks exactly like a mayfly, you’ll never get a perfect drift.”

“Trout aren’t very bright, dearest Poet,” walking away, she yawned.

“Why are you mortals so concerned with love? Isn’t playing with a dozen naughty nymphs enough?” The tip of her tongue traveled the length of glossy lips.

“There are a thousand ways to catch a Nymph.” The Poet grinned.

“The wet-fly swing works best with a lightly weighted fly.” Deep sigh.

“Most insects wiggle with the current.”

The seagull glided gracefully atop ocean crests.

“True love is not a fishing game. What would I give to bathe again in the delicate mist of the beloved Muse? To relinquish my depths in her genuine embrace? To kiss Eranna’s caramel oozing, honey-flavored lips and feed her longings with delightful culinary treats?”

Eyes squinting, the Poet faced the sun.

“As though thou wert of all earth’s daughter’s queen, the winter of the heart longs for Eranna’s grin.” Sappho’s verse soared over the turquoise sea.

“What is life worth without the captivating beauty of an open heart, an honest smile, playful fingers, and devoted hands?” The Poet stood firm on the brittle sands of exile.

“To find inner peace in a world constantly at war, the Poet must cultivate true Love, dear Nymph.”

 

*******

The Poet closed the journal and placed it under the pillow after recording the lucid dream. Silly Nymph! Life is never as it seems. The Poet returned to the landscape of her dreams.

Novel Title: The Poet and The Muse: A Contemporary Tale (excerpts from the novel in progress)
Prologue: Invocation
Genre: Lucid Surrealism (novel)
Author: Mariel Masque
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