Love Poems

Love Poems

(and other poems)

by

A Lost Englishman

Introduction

In the summer of 2014 I fell in love. I had no expectations of love at my advanced age and the highs and lows of that happening were sometimes overpowering. The affair lasted just four months. During that time I started to write poetry, for the first time and quite spontaneously. The beautiful woman I had fallen in love with was my Muse. When we parted, the writing stopped abruptly.

I have grouped the love poems I wrote in order of writing, and these are followed by other poems I wrote in order of writing too.

The affair has ended but the memories linger on here in these poems.

The Love Poems

Muse

I think of you in bed.

It is here that the chains of your morality fall off and you arerevealed, ardent, young, and with a fiery passion no onewould suspect.

It is here that you can hold my gaze as your emotions riseand you need hide yourself no longer.

Now before me is the natural girl who existed before anyauthority branded lust over the beauty of desire; the truewoman who identifies the man with her as her bonded love.

I am in awe.

She loves me, she loves me not.

The mechanical universe slowly turnsand the heavy petals of her flower fall to the ground.

One petal: she wants time,Two petal: she will put up my framed poem and my photos in her bedroom.Three petal: she relays her bad experiences of past loves.Four petal: she texts me every night.Five petal: she loves her new found independence.Six petal: she makes time for us to be together every week.Seven petal: she says her family will remain the focus of her life.Eight petal: there is no eight petal.

Should I run? Should I end it now and suffer a quicker pain than a long drawn out goodbye? But my flower was fully opened and the petals have told their tale. I love her.

Nothing?

Come back sweet zephyr,Oh, how can I fetch her?My quill has run dry,please nymph to me fly.

With my appeals to beget them,Did my thoughts then upset them?Did one float high above,Looking down without love?Did she flee from this place?Not one word to embrace?

Now my thoughts ebb and flow,Perhaps I reap what I sow.But I feel oh so numb,will my Muse ever come?

Friends with Benefits.

Cool it, dont be so gushy,Try to relax, not quite so mushy.The girl you adore wants a friend and no more,shes had it with passion, she wants the new fashion.

So dont talk of love or the stars up above,or sense your heart pound, as your feelings abound.

Sex with no strings, no sentiments, no rings.No thoughts of tomorrow, no happiness, no sorrow.Staying just friends, no loss if it ends.

But this is not me, my heart isnt free.Must I play this sad sham, forget Im a man,whos inner self aches at every movement she makes?

Too Late

Running down hill to catch up with her emotions,Too fast, too fast, you might trip.

Feeling sorry for yourself, when she will not admit love,Too slow, too slow, her thoughts are way ahead of you.

Saying you will be patient, when you cannot be,Too false, too false, she reads you like a book.

Being silent and abrupt as a bad mood takes you,Too childish, too childish, you will loose her respect.

Waiting impatiently for her to call, then calling her yourself,Too late, you tripped.

Rose with a broken stem.

Her married life had broken her; she couldn't give herself again.Emotionally she was finished; still a rose, but with a broken stem.

Notes on this Poem:

The beginning was unexpected:

All evening long I had sat there breathing in her sweetness; a shy demure elementary school teacher, prim and proper, just eighteen months out of a long bad marriage and one even longer failed marriage before. She was petite and beautiful, quietly spoken and obviously very loving and caring, as she had told me of her past and her family, and I told her of mine. As we left for the car park after that first date she suddenly turned and kissed me; not a strangers kiss, or thank you kiss, but a full on the mouth penetrating kiss. It knocked me out, span my head;

she really likes me!

And the end of the beginning:

During that first hour-long drive home I had a huge smile on my face! All the half drunk coffees and untasting meals, and a couple of false starts on my dating travail seemed so trivial now, I had found her. Oh how I wanted love, I tasted it in that first kiss,

but I should have read her more closely, she wanted a friend, not a partner.

The middle chapters:

A few days later she invited me into her beautiful small home and after an embrace that lasted half an hour, she took me to her bed. I will draw a veil here, except to say that my earlier poem, Muse, gives some hint of that night and many others that followed. We met once a week, exchanged more of our histories and hopes, caught a movie show and something to eat and then spent the night together. She was everything I desired in a woman, and my passion rose with each passing day.

It frightened her, I didn't realize how it frightened her, and I should have toned it down, but I wear my heart on my sleeve.

The raison detre:

She had just sorted out her life, found balance, found security, found her links back again with her family: Her last husband, had been a selfish brute and drawn her away from them with really bad results, and the trauma of her dysfunctional family she blamed on herself for leaving them to pursue this second, and hopefully culminating, but finally unfulfilled marriage.

And then there were the many years of yearning on her part to be with them again.

The end was by text and email:

A half a dozen rehearsed reasons and a few good wishes.

Author Notes

Really unsure about this as poetry, it's more a short romance, but I hope my readers will be kind.

Mysteries Revealed

I hold you softly in my armsand the nightingale begins to singmy lips like her feathers brush your cheekand the whisper of my breath tells you I am yours

Look into my eyesthe starlight you see there is a reflection of you

Soon we will become as oneas our souls reach a crescendo

No need to hide your secret self any moreall you ever wanted to reveal is said in this moment

I still taste you on my lipsJust last night I descend into your wondrous soft steel eyes.

They drew me in, sang to me.I found my hands perusing gentle contours, ardor flowing to my fingertips,and your dove like touch resolving into firmness as you led me on.

This morning the dream is gone, but I still taste you on my lips.

The ring around her heart

Her affections in a fortress, bound in the Keep above.The ramparts are called memories, the guards the fear of love.I can but shout up to the Keep and hope she hears my call.Come sweet Princess the time is ripe, help me break this wall,if both we work from either side and claw away the stone,perhaps we might breach this tower and then never be alone.Though she hears my call and looks distraught, no effort do I see,She shouts back give me time and then I will be freeAnd then I see her jailer; the thought of love forlorn,Grab the chains around her heart, and my hope is once more torn.

Author Notes

Sometimes poems come easy, they just flow without any real effort. and they seem perfectly formed. This one was hard, my Muse was a long way off and I had to sweat long and hard. Not sure if it is that good, but I am glad to have got it written.

The Golden Pitcher

I see her looking down,her eyes full of ecstasy at that wonderful climb,gasping for breath, happy in her success,her face serene as a spiritual brilliancespotlights her beautiful frame.

I have been her Sherpa on this journey,carrying her precious cargo up that ever steepening path,and as she reaches the pinnacle of the high mountain,a golden bejeweled pitcher,shining in the sunlight,pours libation over my sweat covered torso.

Only the brave can suffer love

If I could rewind the clock,never have tasted that first kiss,never have felt that first ecstasy,never given my heart,I would be the poorer,and would have continued through life in a middle key,rather than experiencing the wonderful adagio of feelings love can bring.

I never thought myself able to love so deeply,never realized the effect on my spirit of these highs and these lows,never realized how much one can become the effect of a butterflys wings,fighting a hurricane that comes from just a look.

I never thought of myself as brave; just sensible,never have been able to give myself so profoundly,always thought those who love are weak,when if they can brave that storm,they are strong indeed.

The deer that looks into the hunters gun

Like the deer that looks into the hunters gun,then freezes and cannot run,like the hare who sees the trap too late,and becomes resigned to his sudden fate,I look into this affair and see, true signs of it's fatality.

Instead of words of love divine, she talks just of her day,instead of promises, desires and hopes, I get a silent nay,instead of whispered sweetnesses, I get some mundane facts,instead of texted intimacies, there are bland and nothing tracts.

I feel the grip of an ice-cold wind, though nothing blows this day,a man under sentence of death, yet I cannot kneel and pray,I want it to be over; rush into my Executioners arms,feel the cut, embrace the dark, and forget her wondrous charms.

A rush of air

A rush of air, and her wings enfold me,my Muse is here,this touch has told me.

Those dreams of an angel as a lad,are back with me now and in beauty clad.

Pure serenity of heart as I foresaw,a heavenly smile,not a single flaw.

So here she rests expectantly,we have time,we have space;we have eternity.

Eye am a camera

Just last night, my hands ran down your silk soft skin,feeling the firmness beneath, and as they passed by heavens gate,a perfect heart appeared before my eyes.

Brave to my task I soldiered on, but that image remained transfixed in my mind;the perfect heart depicted in such a beautiful form.

Flower in the night

She is the fragrance of my bed,she is my flower in the night,she is my morning star rising over the distant mountain;my Venus bright and radiant.

She is my hammer and my chisel,she is the color on my pallet andthe sweet melody running through my discordant life,she is my Muse.

Hurry

I have searched through the swirling curling twirling vortex of time for you;we are united and parted, united and parted again.My desire still knows no bounds;you are my Ying, I must be your Yang.Do you recognize me or have too many other faces confused your vision?Look into my eyes.

Through the mists of this so called reality I have sought to find you here;an image of love; ardent, compliant, sensual, urgent,a visage full of secret desire, and heaving yearning passion.

For a brief moment, the strands bring us close again,hurry, reach out and take me now,before these sinuous curving fateful lines pull us apart for another eon.

Touch my finger tips, then grab on to my wrists, and pull me through,hold me now in you firm grasp; never let me go.

I am yours.

Once I believed in love at first sight

There once was a lassie young, sweet and true,gave her heart to some boy, though I know not to who,but he was gallant and handsome, and yes winsome too,so they sealed their love as lovers will do,and great happiness she found as their passions on grew;for her, time stood stillfor a moment or two.

Then a move by her family let fate intervene,and her heart was broken, and she not sixteen.

She never forgot that fine winsome lad,yet when life moves on we must make good out of bad;soon her heart was captured by a bold troubadour,and the years they did pass with that melodic senor,they had children to make her life feel complete,but his dissolute ways turned it sour from sweet.

Then single once more, who should come into her life?Yes, her first love matured and in need of a wife.They married and so the circle full turned,surely here was the ending for all those concerned.

But the man from the boy was so different in ardor,hidden under his smile, a mind so much harder.Rejecting her children and taking an outside amour,he squandered her heart so she showed him the door.

Alas, now was the time for me to appear,with her emotions so battered, her thoughts so austere.

Now her heart is like a big iron door,which I beat on so hard till my fists both are sore,and when I ask her to speak and make sense of my plight,she says Once I believed in love at first sight.

Author Notes

Trying to make a poem out of a romantic life summary - impossible really, but it was a labor of love.

The Forgotten Wheel

Your engine climbs lifes incline, I can hear its heavy motion,no time to spare,no time to care,oil the wheels that make commotion.

But if the engine wheels could voice,and there is one who would like the choice,to speak between the rattling rhymes,and say to you following lines:

This wheel suppresses every squeak,remains silent, yet needs to speak,for as you toil above it,it knows you do not love it,so around it goes,in life's onward flows,but your attention it so doth covet.'

Last Train to Clarksville

Sitting here on this platform in the drizzling rain,suns gone down, am I waiting in vain?I went on before you, brim full of elation,and now must I mope in this desolate station.

Was my impulse to love you the wrong thing to do?Did I act on my feelings never thinking it through?Was that deep inner beauty I saw in your eyes,and that incredible kiss my emotions demise?

Did I jump on the love train assuming too much?Did you stop considering past failures and such?Think I like where I am, but where will this take meto a cold, lonely place, where he will forsake me?

Considering this and against all expectation,I know this was more than casual flirtation,youre too good for that, and my feelings are true,you thought as I did, 'I've been searching for you.

So I will brave the cold, the wind and the rain,search every carriage on every new train,Im not wrong about you; I know I was right,get on that train girl and be here tonight!

Always the lover, but never beloved.

Always supporting, but rarely supported,always so hopeful, but never consorted.Always believing, but never believed in,always the dreamer, but no dreams to weave in.Always so positive, but every thought earthed,always the planner, but nothing is worthed.Always the reacher, but not to be reached for,always impassioned, but hopeful no more.The light of desire if not lovingly trimmed,splutters and flickers and is eventually dimmed.

Amnesia

As we gaze at one another, time melts.

Look into my eyes,who am I?We may have never met,but I am the man who loves you now and,has loved you over time immemorial.

Look deep,look into the past,look into your heart,look into mine,I have loved no other;when the image of you became lost I grieved,and then I set out to seek you again.I thought I would never find you,but I never gave up.

I will be patient and wait by your side,if you will let me,

for you have forgotten the wonder of love,and I have not.

Substitutes

I dont mind the headaches,the tumbling footsteps,or the insouciance, I know that I feign.

But if whisky and brandy,dont make me feel dandy,then drinking cant help me its plain.

So lets try cookies and candy,and hope that just maybe,Ill taste you all over again.

Do not cry

There are some in this world who give so much to those around them,you are one of these.

When I tell you that every man who has ever known you still loves you,I sense from all my experience, that this is true.

You are the beauty of the female line personified;loving, caring, thinking of the good of others around you before yourself.

You have not destroyed me; you have made me stronger,and you will stay in my heart, not with regret, but with sweet joy.

It was an honor to have known you,and a pleasure to have loved you.

Author Notes

The end, (Ithink).

The Other Poems

The cat smiled

Id seen them hiss,Id seen them spit,Id seen them throw a hissy fit.But Id never seen their face to split.

I asked him why he smiled so wide.He licked his tail and then replied.In your dreams I've seen you fall,Grow quite huge and then quite small.I've seen you with a butterflys child,Play croquet with a flamingos side,Cheat at cards with the queen of hearts,Drink foul soup and with a pig depart.I've seen you argue with a Dove,When eggs are fresh high above.Drink cold tea that tastes of mouse,Grow so big you fill a house.

Now you ask me why I smile,You must consider for a while,Why you think me so contrary,When your antics are extraordinary.Maybe soon you will awake,Look around and contemplate,Is our world so much bettered,Than your dreams, so unfettered?

Author Notes

Well it's one of my all time favorite books, so I had to choose this prompt. I especially like Alice's argument with the caterpillar; the epitome of illogical authority. RIP Lewis Carol.

American Nightingale

Every night through June he sang, I thought he sang for me,so sweet and mellifluous, perched in my old oak tree.

I caught a glimpse just once or twice when he or she would land,on my lawn to pluck a morsel, just a flash of white and tan.

Im sure there was a nest, high up in the sky,And soon there would be little ones, their songs of joy to try.

And then one day upon my porch the hen lay cold and dead,her little neck so twisted, her mouth a touch of red.

The razor feathers spread about told a sorry tale,And my cat a few paces off, looking oh so hale.

I sat until evening came and heard him sing with pain,He called for her all nighttime long, then never sang again.

Author Notes

I love my cat, but hate her too now.

Cinderella and the Time Traveler.

She lifted the hem of her white taffeta dress and stepped into the Hack.The horses hooves on the wet cobblestones staccatod clicketty, click, clack, clack.The Palace would be full tonight and radiant in the black,And she knew he would be there, if he was ever coming back.

The bewitching hour was twelve midnight, she must be ready then;be dancing in his big strong arms when the vortex would descend.Last time she ran as the clock struck twelve, afraid for all to see,her tattered clothes, her cindered hair, her maiden poverty.

True love only comes this once, my Godmother said to me,when the one you love, loves you still, in your true reality,''I must be brave and dance on this night and let him see the truth,my old torn dress, my worn out shoes, and then Ill know the proof.'

The ballroom was just full of folk, all dressed up to the nines,With silken robes, their powdered wigs, their jewelry so fine.In the midst he stood, so elegant, so masculine and divine.He looked up as she entered, and then his eyes did shine.

In a moment they were dancing, just like they danced before,His big strong arm around her waist, spinning more and more.The time flew by, she knew it would, but still she felt not lost,She wanted him forever, no matter what the cost.

'This is not me' she heard him say, 'I am no Prince, I fear,Just a poor man from the future, come back to seek you here.At twelve midnight, we shall to each, reveal ourselves at last,but if we cling together, into another time well pass.'

The courtyard clock struck twelve just then, it sounded through the din,His fine stitched clothes fell off his frame, just like manikin,And then she watched him as his eyes perceived her feminine,And he whispered to her tenderly, what beauty lies within.

The vortex closed, they lifted up and through the roof they flew,And in a flash they were taken back to a time they never knew.Will you take this girl for your wedded wife, and forever to her be true?Yes, I will a thousand times and onward through and through...Then at the door a voice did come shouting through the lock,Turn that silly computer game off, its past twelve oclock.

A Beatles Moment

I could hardly hear through the mad screaming swell,but John, Paul, George and Ringo played on so well.I was just a kid then, who their music had found,listened with awe, at that wonderful sound.Then later as we walked from the Finsbury Astoria,I new I would follow them, sic transit gloria.And their music sang on for so many years,yes, it helped to define us; me and my peers.First as teen breaking away,then as a hippie, (a little clich).Time moved on and then they divided,their empathy broke, as Paul confided.Then fifty years later a friend said to me,here are two tickets a Beatles tribute to see.At first I declined, thinking nothing could match them,but she firmly insisted, so well, back to the mayhem.Rain was the name of this tribute band,I entered the hall not expecting much grand.Then lifted the curtain, and there was my band,Singing their hearts out over a fifty year span.A little shiver, and then a thwack,and in that instant I was transported back,To that first time with all the noise and din,my eyes became moistened, my head in a spin.So perfect were they as they mimicked my crew,in every stitch perfect, in every note true.

At the end, I was helped up, and Ill tell you the truth,be it just for a short while, I had returned to my youth.

Author Notes

Dedicated to Peacelovehearts who inspired it, and Lenea, who lovingly and firmly pushed me to go see this band a few years back.

For anyone who likes the Beatles, if Rain is still playing their tributes, I highly recommend you go see them, they are so awesomely like the fab four.

To a would be Poet

We are older than the stars, know this.The age of the universe is really only a wink of time in our eyes.

Do not look for yourself inside, there is nothing there but thoughts, we are dimensionless; We are spirits.

Everything we think is logical is finally based on our emotions,hurt, pain, love, happiness, enthusiasm, hate, and death are all part of the game.We forgot that.

Feel your emotions, create your ideas, and communicate them beautifully;this is the destiny of a would be poet.

Id wish you good luck, but you dont need it,look up into your world, and take heart, you are immortal.

Author Notes

We all need to be liberated from this terrible oppressive idea that we are not immortal.

Not a Poem; a Prayer.

Krishna, you have watched me foolish for eons,come into my being and make me, like Arjuna, understand.Fill me with your essence, make me strong, not for myself, but for others.

I cannot, like Siddarthar, give up what I love,I cannot like Christ, always turn the other cheek,but I would wish to be your vessel, and do your work;be brave when the time comes to fight the good fight,as you guide my chariot into the heart of the storm.

Author Notes

Now I know why we have religious ritual, it is to remind us to look for god.

Questions to a woman

So what is it then that you expect of my kind?Strength and silence, big strong arms, a small feeble mind?

Great wit, little values, no thought of the hereafter?But a true carefree style, and a commitment to laughter?

Maybe passion and commitment, would be your brew,and then talk of desire when the day is though?

Or should he have sentiment, and act sweet and true,Be in touch with his Ying? Really I havent a clue.

Then I think, if you told me would it change me at all?Make me build up my triceps, or raise myself tall?

Be a bit more dashing or very more kind,or think little of life, and to the future be blind?

I am who I am, and I know this is true,when it comes to crux, what do I value in you?

The Cat

She lies beside me on my porch chair seemingly oblivious to the world.Shes had a long night full hunting and scaring and being scared.Her front paws move pitta patta, she is dreaming.Now a little dog barks far off and her head rises up, immediately alert.She calculates it is too far off to be a threat, lowers her head and closes her eyes again.

I have three females in my life; this cat, a small daughter and a wonderful love.

I dont think often of this feline, but she, in reality, gives me all her love and demands so little in return.

Poetic Mistress

Oh mistress mine,your words divine,come into my heart,to make it shine.

Your poetic threads weave,and time they do cleave,through the eons they glide,showing where truth doth abide.

Author Notes

Dedicated to Terri.

Giambolognas Rape of the Sabine Woman

She, with her twisted limbs, precise and in depth, with just hammer and chisel in alabaster white marble did he form, and staying silent as snow, for over two hundred years, even the church bells ringing around the Uffizi could never veil her anguish.

Author Notes

Written for word competition.

Sailing the Tempests of Life

So what is the difference between the strong and the brave?The strong have less feelings, and no emotions do crave.They steer a course having little pleasure or pain,they sacrifice sentiment, lifes harbor to gain.They watch as we founder on rocks of despair,or pass with a fair wind, with no thought of a care,till the shoals of life ground us without hope or a prayer.

But those who experience the emotional storms,steer course regardless, holding true to the forms,of pure beauty; the aesthetics of love and desire;a life full of feeling; a life full of fire.And these are the brave, on whom strife is afflicted,and the poets, my friend, for whom life is addictive.

Light my Fire

Desolate, ice bound, frigidwildernesspiercing my heartbreath into mewake me up insidethe fire has gonesparks and dribbling smoke are all that remainjust reach out a finger of thought;touch methen draw me into your smooth contours;those warm misty caves charming, invitingcomefeel my formtell me you adore meand I will return from the iceradiate into meyour emotionsyour urgencyand I will dance again in your flameyou are all I ever will desireso come sweet angellight my fire

Author Notes

Mirrored on a poem of the same title written by Naeveh69.

Traductionem Cogitationum

I am thrilled and excited as I witness their birth,for the feelings congeal into meter and verse.Then with eyes tight closed, and fingers all crossed,They are consigned into the deep, there to be lost.

These ideas without substance through the ether must roam,Till a sympatic like mind makes them a home,and the sentiment I had when I saw them new born,is created again in feeling and form.

That is my hope as I wish them farewell;find a mind full of wonder where my thoughts again dwell.

The technical view of emotions Not a poem

Emotions are our conduit between our spiritual world and the physical world, they are senior to thought.

Emotions travel up and down a scale encompassing, but not limited to, deep grief, fear, sadness, anger, hostility, conservativeness, mild interest, strong interest, enthusiasm, exhilaration and serenity. The lower emotions are painful, confusing, debilitating, the higher emotions are uplifting, strong and vigorous.Those with free emotions can ride quickly and freely up and down this rich musical like scale experiencing emotions to match the circumstances they are observing, and the deductions they instantly make from these observations, and their actions are appropriate to the circumstances.

Those who are stuck to some degree in the past through unreconciled pain or loss, often overlay their present observations with fixed emotions, thereby responding to their current observations with unsuitable emotions generating unsuitable actions.

So the next time you see a person acting irrationally to a situation please realize that their emotions are stuck. You can try to help, if you so wish, by listening to them a lot, and very occasionally gently asking them questions, which might prompt them to look again, reevaluate the present time situation, and maybe thereby unstick their unsuitable emotion which is driving their wrong response.

Or you may choose to walk away, that is valid too.

Why? Because of our sympathetic nature, that persons low, irrational emotion will have a negative effect on your present time emotions too, and you do not owe them your higher emotions and they have no natural right to deprive you of them.

Author Notes

This is not a poem, obviously, it is an educated statement of observation, which I hope may help others as poets to better understand emotions, rational and irrational, and treat them differently. If you don't agree with what I say, that's fine, but you don't need to argue here, just leave quietly and go find a debating forum.

Treasure of the Sylthian King

In the enchanted wood, under thousand year oaks,the Sylthian King has laid buried.His treasures of yore have laid with him there,so deep in the soil and unharried,but a little mole in his search for a meal,has revealed all the spoils oh so varied.If you fear not enchantment, nor the curse of the king,then his jewels away can be carried.

Author Notes

Competition: Two Pictures to choose from (Picture 1 Woodland with old knarled trees)

Mouse or Man?

You think you scare me great big dog?But I see your leash tight through this fog.Snarl and growl as much as you can,Ill just sit here like a man.And when your venom is quite spent,Ill walk off quietly to your lament.

Author Notes

Short poem competition based on picture of a snarling dog and a mouse.

Ode to a rich and stupid woman

And death will finally come to thee,and you will be lost from all memory.For nothing of beauty do you leave behind,such a wasted life; so empty and blind.

But I was immersed in the Muses spring,and I wear with pride the sweet roses ring,and a trail of graceful thoughts in my wake I bring,with color and passions that eternally sing.

Author Notes

Dedicated to Sappho and all female poets who follow her.

Sappho was a Greek lyric poet, born on the island of Lesbos some 2,500 years ago. The Alexandrians included her in the list of nine lyric poets and she was unique in being a female poet in a world of men.

My poem is based on a number of translations of a fragment of her verse to an indolent and stupid woman. I have tried to recapture her attitudes to a wastrel and to her own divine vocation.

Her writing was adored by those who followed her in time, but unfortunately all but a few fragments now remain, as the early church had a monopoly on reproducing texts and the writings of a female poet and philosopher was not something they wished to continue. It maybe that the thousands of manuscripts found charred in the 'House of the Papyri' in Pompii contain her works, (her picture appears on a wall painting in Pompeii,) and maybe, just maybe, one day technology will allow us to view their contents again and perhaps rediscover her works. How wonderful that would be.

N.B. The references to Muses Spring and Roses: Ancient Greeks thought that if you drank from the Muses Spring which emanates from Mount Olympus, you could become an Artist, (in the broad senses of the word,) and the reference to Roses comes directly from her poem, antiquarians think that young muses said to be born around Mount Olympus were called Roses or they were crowned with Roses.