On Tuesday I treated myself to a virtual writing marathon sponsored by the National Writing Project. #WriteAcrossAmerica. I showed up for the last stop on a journey across the country. I’m sorry I missed out on all the other stops. This last one was in New Orleans where the writing marathon originated.
Years ago I would spend some time each summer at the New Orleans Writing Marathon organized by the Southeastern Louisiana Writing Project. Three to four days of walking the French Quarter and writing led to lifelong friendships and a few memorable writing pieces.
Unfortunately, the virtual marathon happened in my own house through a screen, but because of the miracle of technology, I was able to connect with new friends and see some old ones. We had three writing sessions and shared in small break out rooms.
The third writing session led me to this poem, still quite drafty. I was just getting my writing muscle to work and the whole thing was over, not a marathon at all, but a quick 75 minute sprint.
Muses
Muses have a lost sense of time.
They live in the back of Napoleon’s Bar
drinking Pim’s Cups.I’ve asked them to visit me
here on the bayou steeped
in cafe au lait brown
buzzing with cicada song.They come in the long shadows
of a summer afternoon.
or in the fractal face
of a sunflower in bloom.Muses mock me
with their silver linings,
here then there,
then nowhere,
hiding in plain sight.Sometimes, I step on them
by mistake.Give me that mess
Margaret Simon, draft
again. My pen is waiting.
Reflections on the Teche 