The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 –2178


Volume-2                                                       JUNE -2012                                                    Number-1



Self-Reflexive MONOLOGUE, with Poet

by Askold Skalsky


The words zag like

minnows in a creek

remaining in the place of their dartings.


Why does the stanza break come here?


Because it looks right,

a nice touch of preverbal chaos.

Don’t you know poets

are conventional people?

In the middle of the week

their happy hour is still a long way off.


Offended by the obvious,

by loaded pistols always going off

against temples, laid away

in felt-lined boxes at an early age,

they walk into the page,

casting about for the right type of blood,


hopes squeezed into a title

as they look over their shoulders

at golden-haired waitresses,

all the while thinking that

God keeps a diary in free verse

but with very strong rhythms.


The end is unpredictable,

like beetles righting themselves

from upside-down wiggles

on their backs, then scurrying off

to someone's fishing bait.


Every stanza kills a little time—

nudging semi-warm bodies

under burr oaks

by summer pools

that drain along the fields,


the hook too large for

the small mouth of the fish,

dangling in water that one

easily steps into—

twice, three times, ad libitum.



by Askold Skalsky


is when one hand claps,

when the unborn face floats

in its amnesic fluids,


the truly last face

before you put on another

at the threshold of sense,


not looking back at fearful

beginnings, the frontiers

at the core of your conclusions,


eccentric forays in the dark.