Not Amused

Poet:

I’m sure all poets get extremely sick
of other poets’ struggles with their rhymes,
but let me learn. I’d like mine to be slick;
at present they get punished for my crimes.
I‘ve looked at Spenser’s poems. He wrote well,
but mine? A joke! Where did he learn his craft?
I contemplated curtals - couldn’t spell
its name. And as for Petrarch! No! I laughed.
My writing’s jinxed. No thoughts, I’m in a fix.
Hmmm, do I write this poem, do I not?
Can’t stand it when my mind starts playing tricks
and ends up asking, “Is this all you’ve got?”
  Today, my muse is blazing mad at me.
  “This sonnet’s off,” she hissed - and so is she.

Muse:

You want a muse? Then you need harder work
than banging out a form in whining time,
dropping names to show you read. Don’t shirk
a cut of choppy syntax forcing a rhyme.
The theme, yourself, most poets will dismiss;
confessionals have been done beyond a turn
and bore. It’s wise to give the style a miss:
you’re no Plath. There’s more for you to learn:
inspiration, association define
a poet’s worth. You’ll find them where your mind
is free, so dream and muse, let insight shine
beyond the daily dross: gold’s yours to find.
  A true phrase speaks to every muse in town,
  but less is trash in a cheap and flashy gown.