1% Inspiration

close up photography of crumpled paper
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1% Inspiration

I wonder, does it start with hoofbeats,
Or the rush of flapping wings ?
The hiss of gas ?  A perfect fifth ?
Or pistons, switches, cogs and springs ?
That moment when the muse comes calling
Bringing insight in her wake –
She gifts her targets sparks and notions,
Just to see what they will make.

And some folks are raptured, and some folks are seizured,
And some folks will cherish and others will fear it –
And I can but look on and ponder their wonder
And try not to envy their genius spirit.
And if I can’t join in their synching,
Can’t speak in their tongues, or can’t waltz in their dance,
At least I can urge them to write down their thinking,
And not to leave mem’ry to chance –

So scurry and scramble to get the sprites pinned,
That jingle or joke or invention or gen –
For how many mousetraps are lost to the wind,
When somebody spoke or for the want of a pen ?

I’ve long since stopped expecting the tap,
Or the draught from angels’ wings
I’ll never be a chosen one
Who gets to feel such precious things
For I am nothing transcendental –
Too much static on the line.
I’m not complaining – so it goes,
I guess we can’t all be divine.

So I have to prod it, and I have I to wring it,
And I have to plead with my brain for a vision –
For I can but whittle upon some idea,
And patiently bring it, I hope, to fruition.
But keep chasing down on that inkling,
And tinker about in the back of the mind –
And most of all, keep turning up at the thinking –
Ah well – back to the grind.

Your whispers and trances may get your thoughts firing,
But mine just meander and dawdle and wend.
My only damn flashes are sparks in my wiring –
But maybe my work is as good in the end ?



Writers’ Block, Writers’ Block

paper balls.jpg


Writers’ Block, Writers’ Block

Nothing to say again, nothing to say,
So I say all my nothing in hope of a spark –
And say and say it all twice, anyway.

I’ve had not a notion for many-a day,
I’m ser’ously thinking of quitting this lark:
I’ve nothing to say, again – nothing to say.

My thinking is lumpy, my twinkle is grey,
My meditive mantra’s an angst-laden bark –
I chant it and chant all twice, anyway.

I rummage my brain for a straggler or stray,
But the cupboard is bare and the tunnel is dark:
I’ve nothing to say, again, nothing to say.

I have to do something, I can’t sit and pray !
I somehow must mallet my impotent mark:
I hammer and hammer it twice, anyway !

But what can I do if the words will not play ?
The page is still empty – the meaning is stark:
I’ve nothing to say, again.  Nothing to say.
So shout it, and shout it out twice, anyway !

Cold Acquaintance

Me & My Shadow by Rosalyn Drexler


Cold Acquaintance

So, we meet once more, Mr Block,
You shrivelled, empty peapod of a man –
It seems that once again you’ve come my way,
And once you come, you always come to stay.

Why do you do it, Mr Block ?
Why must you stymie those who can ?
Why suck me, shrinking, sinking to your level ?,
You stinking and procrastinating devil !

Depressives talk of black, black pits
That swallow whole their lights and wits.
For me, it’s you who comes to mock –
The dull and silent Mr Block !

It seems you are my houseguest, Mr Block,
And now my clues won’t click, my thoughts won’t scan.
You turn my sense to suet, ken to curds –
I’d scream, if I could only find the words !

You’re all that I can think of, Mr Block,
You’ve stolen ev’ry thought and better plan.
I’ve nothing left to tell of, ’cept of you –
And that I’ve said before, and better too !

Whenever you are back in town,
My words dry up, my thoughts shut down.
How much I dread to your deathly knock,
The dry and dusty Mr Block !



Through a Dark Glassly

reflection of finger in a mirror
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Through a Dark Glassly

I sit here so poised, just a-waiting to write,
Waiting for fresh inspiration;
And I sit and I wait for the flash and the light,
And the spark of the birth of creation.
But thoughts and ideas and visions I lack,
Just feeble attempts from a half-hearted hack,
I haven’t a notion that’s worthy a crack:
An impotent writer’s castration.

I sit here so poised, just a-waiting to write,
Waiting to fill up the hollow;
And I sit and I wait, but though try as I might,
I guess that I’ve nothing to follow.
My ev’ry polemic is written and done,
My anger is shouted, my wit had its fun,
My dreaming is dreamt and my grief seen the sun –

But ask me again come tomorrow.




Once Upon a Midnight Dreary by Gustave Doré



Whenever I’m stumped for an effortless rhyme,
Whenever the words won’t fall easy,
When wheezing about on the gravely climb –
So that’s when the words come to tease me;
Late-night linguistical lethargies seize me,
Whenever the trumps are the harder to find.
And oozing from creases all over my mind
Come scuttle the lazy, the sham and resigned:
“Who needs a poem to rhyme ?” so they whisper,
“Nobody else is much bothered these days.
You labour at making all endings the crisper
But is it all worth it, the pittance it pays ?
ry poet, from preacher to lisper
Has long since rejected this overgilt craze.
Why must it be you who won’t flinch at their goosing ?
Still clinging to structures when others are loosing.
Oh, haven’t you seen all the standards reducing ?
And haven’t you seen all their rhythmless fame ?
All of the while, so your petty obtusing,
Is leaving you sleepless and out of the game.”
And so on, and so on.  I hear them, I hear them;
At three in the morning, it’s hopeless to clear them.
For all of their carping and mocking and chiming,
And trying, so trying to foul and coerce.
But still my resistance I’m loading and priming
To shoot down their posy and prosy-like verse.
If only, if only I unearth some rhyming,
Some trove of concordance to echo my timing,
Some anything, anything with the right sounding –
Some something to stifle my wheedle’ing head.
Something to root for, to bring their confounding,
Something of proof that will shutter their hounding,
Anything splendid and outright astounding –
Anything quick, or the voices will spread !
I must end the poem, I must end the pounding,
To let this poor poet at last go to bed !

Dry Rot

black ball point pen on white notebook
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Dry Rot

I have no dark and stormy night
To tell you of today,
I have no thoughts on changing light,
Or rhapsodies to birds in flight,
Or need to set the world to right,
Or clever words at play.
My pen is dry, my powder shot,
My musings down to diddly-squat,
I’ve written ev’rything I’ve got,
I’ve nothing left to say !

But say it still I shall, I must,
I will, despite a lack of thrust
And wearing out your patient trust.
I wallow in my nothingness
Until I’ve said it all.
And when I have – I know, I fear,
My chaff is trite and insincere.
It’s time to get well out of here,
Before I scrawl another mess
Upon another wall.

But never mind, I know my brain
And how it ebbs and floods.
I shall have things to write again
When westwards points the weathervane,
And dust is quenched in summer rain
That shoots the darling buds.
And all this time I go without,
There’s movement still within the drought
As seeds blow in and wait to sprout
To yield their crop of spuds.

I do not know the when or how
There grows some fruit upon the bough,
But hark, I hear a rumble now…
There’s water rising in the wells
To wash away this clot.
I sense their sound, their breath, their key,
The ground is trembling under me.
I know not what their form shall be,
But ballads, sonnets, villanelles –
I’ll write the bloody lot !



Summer Block

clear glass cup with fruits and water inside beside slice fruitas
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Summer Block

Ah, the lazy days of Summer:
Long and languid afternoons,
When cares are short and drinks are tall,
And lives are endless honeymoons.
So who would sweat on metric feet,
To try to pen a tricky rhyme ?
Just close the jotters, pencils down,
And let it go.  It’s not the time.

On such a scorching hummer
When our cares are short and drinks are tall,
And lives are endless honeymoons,
Then no-one thirsts for verse at all.
So let it go, it’s not the time –
Just close the jotters, pencils down.
Our brains would only overheat.
If assonance should raise a frown.

On long and languid afternoons,
Just who would sweat on metric feet
When no-one thirsts for verse at all ?
Our brains would only overheat.
Don’t try to pen a tricky rhyme
On such a scorching hummer.
No assonance should raise a frown
On the lazy days of Summer.