I cannot lie. I only became good at poetry after copious consumption of narcotics. Hence I wrote this. I would be ignorant to state that those who stand in the way of good peyote-ry might shudder inwardly at the thought of so many laws being broken: meter, iambic pentameter etc in the pursuit of a morally good existence/life but I cannot write in any other way.
The Iambic pentameter whom nobody loved
Sat down at the bank of the river and cried
Why does nobody love my throbbing prose
The daisies turned their heads and sang
‘Cause we’re too busy getting…..(insert favourite activity here)’
She was so upset by this she jumped into the river and was drowned.
But by some miracle, she survived!
Later, she had a good think about her close escape and returned to the river bank and sat down with a book in hand to write the story of her life. Lighting a big ‘un she began’
‘I hated Iambic pentameter which is why i decided to become a poet…’
This is like owning up to a NO-GO secret like ONE THAT I HAD. I agreed to go in the army because I trusted my dad. Longtime ago Big Mistake! But I taught me that sometimes even if we end up doing something for all the wrong reasons that sucks bigtime we still do it! And it’s not our fault if we weren’t thinking then if we didn’t know how or why we were alive or really have much of a clue about what we really wanted to do at the time when it sounded like a good idea.
Recently I gave up on science to concentrate on poetry. I began this post wondering how to get into the zone. I had been reading Edgar Allen Poe Tamerlane and Ted Hughes early works today and followed that by writing thirty lines of prose, which is not what I had expected. Again I looked at the poems by Poe and felt eager to emulate his great work I was just understanding it not really digesting it though like a cow with only one stomach It went right through me! Really unclogged me!! But the words did not come!
Why? I did not expect it. I cannot describe or predict the artistic process, creative process, poetry process. It all takes time. God knows how I wrote the ‘good’ poems I wrote except that they bloomed when they were ready to bloom. No-one thing did it either I believe. Even peyote (which I have never ever smoked) could not predict the coming words.
During my misspent youth at around twenty years of age, I wrote two lines of poetry
‘radio’s my only friend
don’t let it ever end’
And it was twenty-five years later that they ended up with a poem/song/lyric.
Play On
It’s a wrong way of life
that you feel deep inside
knowing that you can’t go on
With the feeling going on
(Radios my only friend)
(don’t let it ever end)
Going down to the disco
Looking for someone alive
There’s a big get to
And you know you
did something right
Carry on Carry on
The Sgt Majors
got a baton
Carry on Carry on
Got a mate in a band
Got suicidal and he took your haaaaaa’nd
There is a light at the end of the tunnel
Throw away the hipflask with the funnel
with the funnel
with the funnel
Yeah!
Can play on, and on, and on, and on, and on
There’s no way of knowing. So perhaps you just have to wait. And read. And write. And laze. And bite. Away.
Anyway, I enjoy writing other than poetry and this comes through in what I write myself. I have enjoyed this passage of time like a surprising whisky flavour but it is more rewarding because I get to share it with you, eyeball.(we are online after-all)
So go on and write that verse and don’t worry if you hate meter, rhythm, iambic BLOODY pentameter. Just give it a go. (I am telling myself)
Thank-you eyeball for your undivided attention. Ta-ta.
Material things get the better of us 