Cauldron of Creation

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I don’t know whether you noticed but when I write a poem I slam it down on the page still white –hot from the cauldron of creation. Only when it cools do I see its cracks and imperfections. This may take minutes, more often hours, sometimes days. One poem took me nine years to write. There’s still a few I’m working on from twenty years back.

Those of you who see the still molten post will be surprised when you see the reworked version solidifying into its present state. Yes, you should edit. The trick is not to edit out the primal energy which birthed the poem.

Mingling with the Miniatures

bonsai-tree

I saw it advertised in the local rag.

‘Bonsai Show’, it said.

It was a tiny notice. I had to squint to read the details.

The hall was rather tiny.

I squeezed through the entrance almost knocking my head

against several light fittings on my way in.

It looked like a huddle of hobbits around the bonsai which

were unusually tiny.

“They’re not fully grown yet,” a volunteer offered.

Like many of you, I felt like saying but bit my tongue.

The Club President gave a haiku-sized speech for which

we were all grateful.

I mingled for half an hour indulging in the small talk until

refreshments were served.

There were pies, pasties and muffins from the ovens of Lilliput.

“Would you like a short black?” the serving lady asked.

“Any chance of some wine ?” I said.

“Sorry,” she answered, “It’s in very short supply.”

I had had about enough of pint-sized jokes.

I couldn’t wait to get outside in the big, bold world.

I Can’t be Buggered

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I could go for a walk but I can’t be buggered.

I could check my Facebook status but I can’t be buggered.

I could cut back the bush near the letter box so the postie can chuff past more easily on his motor scooter.

But I can’t be buggered.

I could put more effort in getting my next manuscript together — the editor is interested — but I can’t be buggered doing that either.

I almost can’t be buggered writing this poem about not being buggered.

Would rather curl up in the sun out the back with a good crime novel and lose myself in the plot.

to Stand Out

stage

 

I was reading about Miss Jean Brodie

About her being in her prime

her ‘owning’ the stage

Of the classroom

With the forty girls sitting in rows

Looking and listening

 

& I thought

How much blogging is like this

How each of us

Performs on the platform of the page

Seeking to impress

to stand out

To make our ‘mark’ upon

The rows and rows of readers

 

& how one day

Perhaps

A fellow blogger

Will remember our performances

And memorialize us

As Muriel Spark did Miss Kay

 

 

 

Sexual Predator

everythings_eventual

 

“No rest for the innocent”, she sighs —

As she looks out the back door.

 

“Looks like he’s raping her again.

He’s as randy as Harvey Weinstein”.

.

“For fuck’s sake, they’re blackbirds,” I say.

.”How anthropomorphic can you get?

 

And anyway, all things being eventual.

The act might well be consensual.”

On Reading Jilly Cooper

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I do not much like her novels.

They are crammed with characters like clowns jammed in jalopies.

But I like her epilogues.

They are lean and succinct, sinewy.

A bit like you, Bev says with a chuckle.

I may not have a novel in me but I have a draw full of epilogues.

And when push comes to shove I can pump out prologues at the drop of a hat.

It’s the in-between bits I’m not good at.

I could leave them to someone else.

Jilly Cooper, for instance.