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 –
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 ? Every 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 !
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 !
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.
Rhyming Couplets 