Sunday, 19 March 2017


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.