Poets teach us to look with our own eyes
We are a nation of seekers. We look outside ourselves for salvation, for what our perspective should be, for how and what to think, when turning the looking glass inward would better serve us.
Another Billy, a different one, one who probably didn't care to be called Billy, tells us so. I love his work, too. He will visit us again this month, I'm quite sure. For now, know that you are your own best muse. Treat yourself like one. Trust yourself to your own way of looking at things.
When I met my muse
I glanced at her and took
off—they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.
I think the Keats quote at the start of this post is exactly it. We see in poetry an expression of what we feel, and we recognize it, almost as a remembrance.