The Poet's Progress

Open Mic, The Chipped Teacup , back in Eighty-Five, 

Alcohol it inspired me , and  my poetry came alive.

 I plagiarised lyrics from songwriters like Tom Waits, 

Dylan Thomas' verbiage and Beat Generation greats.

I supped up all my Guinness, that dark black Irish stout, 

I quaffed back everything until the barman chucked me out.

I ranted and chanted with raps and sloganeering, 

The audience in the 'Teacup' didn't like what they were hearing.

I tried stream of consciousness, which wasn't quite effective, 

my free-verse compositions, they verged on the selective.

I wrote about some women, my unrequited loves, 

I scribbled odes of iron fists encased in velvet gloves.

Until one day , I took my notebooks, and cast them in the fire, 

the blue and white lined pages burned there on the pyre.

The journals of my wasted years, toothless, lacking bite, 

flew way up in the chimney, and off into the night.

In Ninety -five,  I plucked influences like a gardener pulls weeds,

W.N Herbert was my fave, I went to see him read,

At my local pub, ‘The Chipped Teacup’,  was poetry ,pies and  pints,

I listened raptly , took some notes, scrawled down some helpful hints.

I tried to write in every form, according to my reading,

The odd mindblowing syllabic verse was what my poems were needing

Sonnets, sestets, quatrains, sestinas, villanelles,

I was closer to poetry heaven than I was to poetry hell.

Then  in Twenty eleven, came my first chapbook collection,

a limited edition printed  run, it garnered scant attention.

My second one in ‘Twenty-three, it didn’t do as bad,

Twenty-seven copies sold, I suppose that’s not too sad.

I live in hope of publishing another pamphlet soon,

before I become a ghost, or birds fly to the moon.

I enjoy my poetry truly, have done so since a boy,

I love to play with rhythm and rhyme; it fills me up with joy!