The Muses Before Titanic Three muses flit invisibly On Cameron's new floating set- Clio, sister of history, Melpomene, of tragedy, Calliope, for epics known. Poseidon turned to celluloid. Their uncle brings Titanic down. "Sisters," muses Calliope, "About the show I've birthed some thoughts. This pictured hubris and demise Echoes disaster in its costs. And furthermore, discern the scene Of writers and director lost. They tread their sea's techno-debris." "Let's fly," sighs bookish History. "Titanic brooks the fiscal fish That bore away her healthy wood. They leave receipts of slime and rust. The currents fed by lucre-winds Now pop her rivets and her joints. The past leaks out between her plates." "I stand with Clio, History," Concurs tragic Melpomene. "Our home- Olympus- waits for us. Our home will keep this sight away Of pathos and catharsis drowned In water of most bitter salt. Let's teleport home now, okay?" "We must," injects Calliope, For I, the epic child of Zeus, Have now recalled my specialty. My sphere is narrative in verse. Titanic's legend, large in scope, Is fitted out for epic well. A poet now to hold the quill." "Now hold and slow your speedy pace," Councels Clio, mistress of facts. You've put the wreck before the winch. You've put the who before the what. Put plot before the person now. For none receive inspired verse Unless details are laid out first." "Oh, dear! Details, details, details. Historic mantra-epic yaawwwn. For 'bergs of fact do surely prick Imagination's titan hull. Sister, your podium looms near, With shattering old lecture bell. Do please refrain from ringing now." "And yet, you'll surely hear it toll," Assures historic child of Zeus. "First, open these colossal doors Summon young Ganymede for me. For I, after trekking home heights Now entertain relentless thirst. You'll let me drink ambrosia first." "Oh, Ganymede, cup-bearer dear," Melpomene calls wistfully. "When through with jealous Hera's chores, Abrosia please for one parched throat. I'll sit, a silent statue me. A coming storm of words I sense. Avoidance is my plotted course." "Oh, Ganymede, so there you are, And thank you boy for coming fast. Now sis, I'll ring that lecture bell, And History will teach today. For what your epic voyage needs- Provisioned wheat, as well as sweets. Frosting can be revisionist." "Revisionist," cries epic's muse. Please, sister don't mistake my aim. The whos, the whys, the whens, and hows Of rigid fact are lousy marks. An epic arrow's path through words Has been and shall be fictional. Since Homer, myth and Bible reign." "You know right well Calliope You wrote the book on epic form. If I can brook changed history When I would have it writ in stone, Then you can brook adapting poem. And anyway, what of the Rape by Pope? You loosened up your wants for that." "I do. I do. I do know well. It's simply that my pride still smarts. My Clio, you and Thalia, Comedic muse, made mockery Of Milton's Paradise with Pope. After I came to you for help, I felt I'd been usurped, disgraced." "You've thrown me for a loop, by Jove! Two centuries and eighty years Have passed as mortals measure time. You can't have locked grudge in your heart Over a bit, some trifle rhymes. Calliope, advice: to shed- To shed and grow a thicker skin." "It's easier to say than do. Pallas Athena ordered an 'Heroi-Comic' olive branch- Lord Petre raped a lock of hair From Arabella Fermor's head. Collaborating on that text Did drive me to the 'Cave of Spleen'." "Was writing rosy then for us? For Thalia and me I mean. The history of Pope's hybrid- A history that's filled with thorns. We fought about the blended bud. What epic parents should we breed To birth a bloom of true events?" "But why," now asks Melpomene, "Clio, did you and Comedy Not trust yourselves to grow the plant? Did you esteem your talents low? How tragic if that's really true. Oh why couldn't Calliope Just leave the garden for that once?" "Because, in truth," sighs epic's muse, "Historic and comedic buds, With other petaled disciplines, Are abstract flowers of the brain. Antique narrative blooms alone Blend hardiness into the breeds. The blossoms made are strong in wind." "So thank you dear Calliope," Melpomene feels free to say. "Although I sought our Clio's views, Your contribution can be used. And I for one think substance counts. The forms are reeds that bend in winds Of changing, fickle fashion fads. And further," says the tragic muse, The substance of the constant theme Is that of bitter tears and loss. The human race does gravitate To blurbs of pain and bites of death. Each day and night the people see Proverbial, sad, sunken ships." "Our silent statue speaks again," Laughs Clio, muse of history. "For marble, you've had much to say. I've chronicled your views just now. I'm glad you jumped into our storm. Your word-drops falling with our rain. I'm sure you thought no lull would come." "It's true," affirms Calliope. Historic Clio and myself Have epic talks and old debates. Convinced, cajoled, and often screamed, Clio and I leave little room Within our chats for other views. But now, I'll drive old habit out." "And thanks again Calliope," Melpomene extends her hand, "For giving up the floor to me. My great oration for the day Will focus on Titanic's course- Exposing spirits in her bowels. I mean her ghosts should be the text. Today, before, I spoke to you About the need for bites of sound And blurbs of pain for modern folk. This too applies to poetry, As well as to what people watch. Therefore, I phantoms recommend- Dissolving in to prick the mind. Use venue of the Underworld- The sea as setting for the dead. They're paranormal blurbs and bites. They're fit for now's attention span. They flit and float upon the scene. They rivet readers to their plight. With dialogue, this comes to pass." "Aha, tragic Melpomene Has hit the Sphinx upon the head," Exclaims excited History. "She's solved the riddle of our lead, For Dr. Ballard did descend. He visited Titanic's wreck And found large echoes of her past." "I'm sure," adds epic's muse with thought, "That you Clio will make yourself As busy as an octopus- Endeavoring to trap the facts Surrounding Ballard's treasure hunt With each of your long tentacles. Along with you, we'll need some help. Conveying readers undersea Amid Titanic's underworld, We three alone can't bring about. Young sister Psi, muse of unknowns- Our mother's child, but not with Zeus, Inspires visions of that sort. Tell Hermes he must summon her." "Before we find winged messenger," Says whining muse of history, "Please tell me there's some other way. She may have helped you, epic sis- Conveying Scylla and the sylphs. However, Psi can wade too deep Within her fancy's charybdis." "Reserve your thoughts," speaks epic's muse. "Our mother Memory's affair With Morpheus, the god of dreams, Ensured that Psi would hear a beat That's different from ours for sure. She strives to walk the line between Remembered truths and maybe mists. And also," says Calliope, "We'll need our Psi for any hope of conjuring late Captain Smith. Titanic's master left behind Unsettled doubts about his end. Which version of his death to use? You talk about revisionist." "Oh, whether Smith did save a babe," Opines tragic Melpomene "Before he sank within the waves Is less important than the flares- Titanic's hope, white-hot and high. Those fires doused by Captain Lord. Why give me such a stare Clio?" "Because," cites muse of history, "Late Stanley Lord's recorded course Amid Titanic's tragic loss Keeps changing with opinion-winds. One day, he's blown to infamy. The next, a friendly breeze will sigh And take his vessel past all blame." "I thought I heard some muse say bang," Now enters in Astronomy, "As in Big Bang- the start of all That's known within the universe? Apologies for I now sense The startled silence in this room. What musings did this muse put off?" "Oh greetings dear Urania. It wasn't 'bang', but 'blame' you heard," Calliope, the epic speaks. "For blame, like flotsam, floats around Above Titanic's resting place. But wait, Hermes can rest his wings. Urania can fill his shoes. Urania, Astronomy- For years, a kindred soul to Psi, Can say the precincts where she strolls, While pondering the world's unknowns. We'll sit with bated breath until Astronomy reveals our star. What murky place does Psi dare plumb?" "Not place, but space, is Psi's chief care," Informs Urania, stars' muse. "Today our Psi turns telescope Atop Olympus Mount to find If holes of theory do exist. These holes, unstable wanderers, Can worm someone away in space." "Can you Urania persuade Our Psi to pay some stellar fare," Calliope inquires now, "And ride these holes back through to earth. Unknown, unseen, but all the same, This cosmic rail means passage down. Titanic waits for her to come." "Of course, I'll take the part assigned And step in sandals for a while. I'll fly our brother's customed route, For Hermes, born our messenger, Does need a break from Hera's wants. She runs him ragged through the sky. I'll take my leave and take to wing." "Urania, Astronomy Has left our space, has exited," The tragic muse now notes for all. "What puzzle of Titanic's tale Is pictured, shaped on Epic's brow? Do pieces fit the way you want? Calliope, what do you think?" "Not think, but know, Melpomene. Titanic's poem will sink, indeed, If certain ballast is not dumped- I mean post-modern bags of sand. Bob Ballard's sub must first go down, Before he brings the data up. To shift events could make some sick. And furthermore," says epic's muse, To keep the ghosts encountered straight, Our diver Ballard needs a guide, As Beatrice to Dante was. This spirit must be called by Psi, The muse inscrutable, unknown, Along with other ghosts below." "May I suggest," asks History, "These spirits enter on the scene Upon the scribbling of a draft. For even I'm prepared to cite That certain points are ironed out On paper board with steaming pen. The time has come for poet's hand." "You may," delights Calliope. I'm glad you've shed your rigid need To plan each word, each line in mind. Our mental storms must pour on dirt And mix with sun to grow a bloom. Our sister Psi can find the hands To plant our guided seed with love." "Indeed, I can! Urania, Your temporary messenger, Has flown the skies in search of me. She spoke as vaguely as a star Is seen by day, but mystery Has spurred this muse of world's unknowns. Explain and poet's hand will come." "It's simply put," says epic's muse. We seek Titanic's ghosts conveyed By you to readers of our poem, And help from Morpheus to find A willing soul to take up pen. Oh, look and see she summons him. We'll have to wait for Dad to send...." Oh, god of dreams, your babe now calls On you- her father in the mists. Please send a dream to poet's mind- A dream to call on muses here- For we can't act unless invoked. A narrator in verse we seek To tell Titanic's tale for all. And do please call on Memory My mother holds the key to bring The images from out of past And mix them with your spell for sleep. Titanic's faces calling out Should leave our poet wanting us To send ideas floating down. My thanks to you for hearing me. It's Psi now signing off with love. I'll see you in the dining hall.... "I know that when 'in medias' It's hard to back your mind again, But please, I'd like some filling in- The what, the who, the how, the when....."
