Contemplating the Poet

Poetry, is a difficult thing.

"Good start."

It squeals and struggles, and wrestles and grapples,

God it just won’t sit still!

You tie it down – you know, put a leash on the thing

To control it. To manoeuvre it around ideas;

The words shape phrases,

And you like the phrases;

The phrases shape poems,

And you like the poems –

So you publish. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

But oh no. No, no, no. Try and control it like that

And the magic just – doesn’t work.

No words making nice phrases;

And no phrases making nice poems.

"Yes – it’s coming together..."

You see, dear reader,

"Good, I like the personal touch – and so will they!"

To write a poem, (A good one, I mean)

You need an idea.

And when you get it, don’t take the words to the idea.

Take the idea, to the words.

Yes that’s right. That’s what you do.

And if you do that, then the magic happens

I’m talking, of course, about inspiration.

Get inspiration. True inspiration. And then –

Then you’ll see.

But the real guile, the really tricky bit,

Comes in finding inspiration.

Good inspiration.

Inspiration, that’ll do magic.

"Yes, I like it; short and punchy – good."

I sit down at the table in the conservatory, watching the clouds go by.

Thinking about the next step.

What shall I do?

What shall I write about?

I pick up the pen, and paper. Lined paper.

Formulating a plan, an idea,

My fingers take off the pen lid for me – they’re eager.

I’ve almost finished the perfect formula

It’s processing, in my mind.

But as I put ink to paper, my mind drifts outré.

The corner of my eye sees red.

The rich, crimson red of my mother’s garden roses

Distinct against the grey, insentient winter garden.

Their petals, ripe with the fullness of beauty.

I change to plain paper, and write, and write.

Yes. Inspiration.

"Brilliant."