Throw-away society

Planned obsolescence

Of material goods

Marriage and partnerships

Easy to toss, too

That includes

The all-important entity

Called Muse

Whose actions

Like the fabled soul mate

Are impossible to predict

Will he always be

Standing over my shoulder

While I type my poetry?

Keats, Byron

Even women like

Wheeler and Walker

Love, curse, cajole

But the Muse

Doesn’t always come through

And me, I’m modern

If he doesn’t work

Find one that will

So here’s my serious plea

If you’re looking for a new job

And you understand poetry

Send your application to me

I really can’t write without you…

(c) 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

Photo: Nickolas Muray,  Frida Kahlo & her male muse




It’s the little steps

Baby steps

That matter

Something we forgot

When toddlers ourselves

No need for all or nothing

No matter the time allotted in life

Just start small

Confessional poets tell it all

Isn’t there always

A bit of fiction, though?

How do we know?

We, today

Are luckier than Adam and Eve

Than Romeo and Juliet

Communication done with ease

No need to trek across turbulent seas

When writing can be

Between you and me

Just need to say

Can you see?

This is me

The true me

And begin

Tottering across the floor

Like babies ready to walk

Before they fly…


© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Sunshine Skyway Bridge, St. Pete, FL



Something lost

From olden days

When bards invoked

Their Muse

That one-only Muse

Almost always available

For the poet alone


Now, you tell me

“Your poem made me think

I will add the idea

To my work-in-progress”

I do that, too

Writing daily poetry

With many a Muse

To draw from


We are not

Monogamously Museful

We are the techno bards

Taking our—prompts?—

From all over the world

Thanks to the internet

We have a Muse a day

Or an hour

In many languages

And cultures


No more mirroring the Romantics

Ancient Greeks or

Those loyal writers using imagination

We read a word or two

On electronic screens

Touch them and

Feel the rush that signals



Ah my Muse

Maybe one day you will return

But in the interim

I have nearly seven billion

Other Muses

At the press of a button…


© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Luigi Cherubini and the Muse of Lyric Poetry – Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres



You, a male siren

Voice luring me

Toward the barnacled rocks

Eagerly I sail

Crashing through the waves of octaves

Melody, rhythm, minor keys of life

Just for that hit born of lust

One more caress of

Hypnotic chanting

Unlike Odysseus

Who tied himself to the mast

While his sailors’ ears were plugged with beeswax

Prudent men, preventing danger

Not me, not smart, willingly wanting to be trapped

My life’s rhythm is off

Give me the drug

That sound of your siren song

My Muse of the Lower World

And I will come…


© 2015 ViataMaja

A-Muse Me


A new year

Gather your flowers

Your essential nine

Walk through the garden

And maybe you think:

What shall I write about today?


If this is so, I need Erato

How can I stimulate her?

How can I convince her?

She needs to be plucked from the garden

To bloom and glow in my vase

As she basks in my admiration

And I am able to create

As her essence and odor permeate

And the brain-fingers coordinate

Necessary for translation onto the page.

Perhaps you think:

Today is a good day for History

Only Clio can help me produce

An extraordinary work of mystery

Flattening yourself on the ground

Gently stroking her stem, her leaves

Before severing her from the moist earth

And setting her into the vase

Next to Erato who is showing signs of

Brown edges and straggly leaves.

And so it goes, nine times

But one of the flowers understands

A magical flower

Who is helpless and will be plucked

And used like the rest of her sisters

But after all

They are goddess flowers

Will live again because

They hold the power over

Those who a-muse themselves

Who are merely the bees stealing nectar

From the Muse who is a vector of

Beauty and Truth

© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija