Open mic

[Calamity Jane]

Two people talking at a bus stop - one a poet, the other a ticket inspector. Maybe

I’m going.
I’m going. 

It’s coming.

Give me poetry.

I have to go.

No
I want poetry.

Give it to me.

Give me a minute and I’ll tell you.

Where.
Here.
Now.
It’s coming.

Here it is.

My poetry
Has left me.
Washed up.
I’m Gracie Fields aspidistraless
I’m John Donne undone
I’m Burns without an Afton flow
I’m Scott Marmioff not Marmion.

My poetry
Has left me.
Bereft.
I’m Cooper Clark with a haircut.
I’m Hegley with contact lenses.
I’m Armitage with no ego.
I’m defenceless.

My poetry
Isn’t there any more and the hole
It left
Is gaping.
I’m no Trudeau
No Baudelaire
No Rimbaud
No Owen
No Clare, Milne, Cummings
I’m going.

Life’s a calamity
this I should know
it’ll challenge your sanity
shoot you with woe.

[Humbug]

{one for Mayday - © 2008}


The Crack

The light of liberty is wrapped in ritual
Our spells speak the consequences
The land the sea and the sky are ours and no-one elses

[A Muse]

Like everyone who's ever picked up a quill, stabbed themselves in the heart and used the blood as ink, I've had a go at poetry. I think it's nearly impossible to judge your own, to the extent poetry needs judging. Click the link coming down the pike for early stuff. As the usual stamp of self-disapproval before anyone else can get their licks in, you've been warned.