Impatience

I do not wish to spend my time on writing

poems: the writing of my poems should

be effortless (say I). I want my poems

to land upon my notebook’s page with no

more effort than it takes to make a cup

of tea (no milk or sugar: why waste effort?).

I write this poem in blank verse. Blank verse

is second nature to me (fortch.) and takes

no effort whatsoever: string some words

along that well-worn pentametric line.

This poem’s shaping up quite nicely now

(can I say nicely in a poem – twice?)

and quickly, with a minimum of effort

(forget the content: count the lines it has).

Contrast this with the one I tried to write

this morning (and for what?): three couplets long;

completely incomplete. It took me hours.

   I write the poems which I want to read,

and this takes time. I am impatient. That’s all.