Carl Kinsky: Blaming Erato
The absent-minded poet trope’s not just
a myth. I’m living proof it’s also real.
I’d be an imbecilic dope to trust
myself to keep my word on any deal
since it’ll slip my mind. But please don’t blame
the poet. Really, it’s the Muse’s fault.
With her first whisper, I’ll forget my name
which I won’t recollect unless she’ll halt,
so captivating is Erato’s voice.
I’ve tried the tricks of tying string on fingers
or sticking fingers in my ears. The choice
is pointless. Either way I’ve no bell ringers
reminding me of what I said I’d do –
a lame excuse unless you hear her too.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Jeff Gallagher: How To Be A Poet
so your parents paid for your show on the Fringe
a solid hour of whine and whinge
but you just weren’t getting any attention
so to be a poet is your new dimension
but you can’t just recite the spoken word
no you gotta work hard to make yourself heard
you gotta be different show your anti-normance -
‘cause poetry is all about PERFORMANCE
your designer stubble is a wow with the ladies
and you turn up for gigs in your daddy’s Mercedes
with an acid tongue your sour stare scans
your loyal crowd of admiring fans
now they can see it in your scowling face
you’re an underprivileged member of the human race
so much you’ve got to be angry about
just look at that frown and that artistic pout
you’re terrified of an anonymous state
so to stop yourself sharing a nameless fate
with the rest of society’s forgotten dregs
you’ve drawn tattoos on your arms and legs
you change your name to Anarchist Zen
identify your gender as it and them
you’ve got stuff to say and you say it a lot
you want the world to change but into what
and you wear the right gear every week of the year
got a crazy haircut and a stud in your ear
you claim you smoke weed every other day
and you once glued your arse to the motorway
you say ‘my critics try to attack me
‘cause I’ve got a second home in Hackney’
but you know your work has purpose and clarity
you don’t care if it causes hilarity
you try to live up to all the hype
filling venues with your verbal tripe
your poetic statements are cold, unsparing,
your ideas reinforced with loads of swearing
& now you want fame and publication
your work imposed on a grateful nation
with your words of anger and profanity
you’re setting out to save humanity
so you shout and you call us out and rant
with your doggerel verse and your TikTok chant
your protest poetry’s such wicked fun
you’re an under-represented minority of one
you’ve never doubted your poetic mission
now your work’s in a limited edition
your words are printed on a toilet roll
and your poems are very effective (on the whole)
‘cause poetry’s about getting people’s attention
through outrage and shock and reinvention
complain that you are poor, deprived, and stressed
& your audience will be suitably impressed
& when you crash the Merc, no need to worry
‘cause you’ll be the richest dude in Surrey
you’ve made it big through your impropriety
& now you can join the Dead Poets’ Society
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
John Whitney Steele: Muse Be Damned, I’m on my Knees Again
I want to write a poem, perhaps a sonnet.
Why let the muse torment me, prolong my drought?
I don’t care so much what it’s about.
Once I find my rhythm, rhyme, I’m on it.
Five feet? A-B-B-A? Nothing’s outshone it.
One stanza launched abolishes all doubt,
and though I want to sing and dance and shout,
at octave’s end I pause, reflect upon it.
Turn the poem inside out, doggone it!
Worship the muse you slandered. Be devout.
Climb Mt. Parnassus barefoot. Go without.
Beg for two more lines to close your sonnet.
Should the muse resist such pleas, don’t pout.
What makes you think that you have so much clout?
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Michael Swan: How To Write A Poem
I think I’ve cracked it.
It’s quite simple.
Get some words
and some metre.
Move the words around
till they fit the metre.
If that’s tricky
drop the metre.
And if that still doesn’t work,
change the words.
But do put in some words.
You don’t want to get into that
experimental modern stuff,
do you?
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Steven Kent: It'll Be Epic
An epic poem I mean to start,
And why not now, on New Year's Day?
I'll versify from head and heart
(Like Wordsworth's Prelude, one might say).
I'll hunker down both night and morn
And meet my quota every week –
A thousand lines – for I have sworn
To scale this high creative peak.
******
I missed a month; it's Valentine's,
So now I'm way behind the curve
And short about six thousand lines,
But I can make it up with verve:
I'll stay up late, I'll work all night,
Ignoring each diversion till
My word count's met. I'll put things right;
I've got to say, I've got the will.
******
It's summer now; oh, what to do?
I'm even more behind, you see.
Another goal unmet – what's new?
Tonight I'll write till 2:00 or 3:00;
I hope to close the gap before
This fleeting summer ends too soon.
On second thought, I'll lock the door
And work until tomorrow noon.
******
Well, Christmas time came on too fast
With 50,000 lines unwrit.
My goal was lofty, New Year's past;
Distractions, though, refused to quit.
Yet I'll affirm right here and now
I mean next year to not get stuck,
To write that epic poem somehow.
(And if I fail, who gives a darn?)
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Will Ingrams: Write It Down
I had an idea for a story
while speeding along in my car,
exciting, not overly gory,
my best plotline ever, by far.
I should have pulled over,
I should have made notes,
while the door to this gift was ajar.
The concert hall sighed with emotion,
Rachmaninov's melodies flowed,
and into my brain came a notion
so brilliant my head could explode;
I should have told someone,
I should have slipped out,
now it's gone – the great triumph I'm owed.
Why are these ideas so elusive?
Quite dazzling, then suddenly gone?
The dregs left behind, inconclusive,
prove useless for building upon.
A pencil and paper,
the chance to make notes,
must be seized. It's a sine qua non.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Michael Pettit: Never Say Die
Kill your darlings – that's the standard advice
when your novel's too long or you’ve said the thing twice
or your pen’s lost the plot which has slipped from your grip –
if your opus is shaggy, it’s time for a clip.
Have no qualms when your babies plead.
Do the job – slice! – and let them bleed.
Sever, revise, edit, excise,
and – what a surprise! – you’ll see Lazarus rise
For the best of the dross still has something to give –
your gems in the rough will rally, they’ll live.
So don’t go to pieces, never say die,
a lopped lizard tail grows back by and by.
Back from the dead, an unfriended phrase
can ink your pen and cheer your days.
A saint’s holy toenail, when housed in a shrine,
is blessed with a whole new chance to shine.
The magician’s assistant, though sawn in two,
will emerge intact, and fresh as the dew.
Disgraced politicians, spin-doctored all through,
move toot sweet from Shit Street straight back to Bellevue.
A fading star retires on cue,
then returns from oblivion to play ingénue.
With the comeback as timed as the tearful adieu,
her run is extended; she twinkles anew
When these very lines were just bits and gore,
the cream of the cropped arose from the floor –
jettisoned scraps I had doomed to be cast off
spawned rhyme that at last may be passably passed off.
Wot, this rot?
Cut the lot!
