It's A Poet Thing

'Writing begets writing' someone said.
They were right.

Over the past two years I've written an astounding amount, blog posts, emails. private poetry for the red diary and automatic writings which, although saved in a cyber folder, just hang around in the air never to be used. The quantity has left me almost speechless. What I'm asking now is what did I do it for? Did I do it for myself or others? Was it a hangover from my past, whereby I filled notebook after notebook with jottings or is it because I have something to say. Something I feel people might like. I suppose it's a little of everything but mostly I write because I have to.
And I have to because otherwise I wouldn't be me. Simple.

If I could draw horses and castles I would, if I could write symphonies I would but I can't do any of those things. What I can do however is scramble words together in the hope of pleasing both myself and others. A long time ago a newspaper editor said to me "You have to cajole readers into reading, you have to stop them from turning over the page to do the crossword". He was right of course. The secret of a successful writer is that he has to grab people by the throat and restrict their breathing, your words must halt their stride and keep them stuck to your side. In other words the writer needs to be both callous and affectionate. A big ask? No, not for most writers, most writers are so in love with themselves and their talent that they really don't have the time to worry about their readers health. All they want and need is your love. That's all.

Poetry is, for me, a funny genre. Funny because it takes so few words to convey great big emotions and simple ideas. My poems, and I have no idea if they're good, bad or indifferent, satisfy me. Some can be self indulgent, and these tend to be written when I'm feeling happy, randy or suicidal. In other words when I'm being selfish. But whenever they're penned and for whatever reason, they're true.

Here's one of my favourites. It's a rare specimen because it's non self-indulgent, in fact it's quite tender.



And, suddenly, like sizzling stars
my kisses crown you delicately most honestly
Allow me sweetheart to wash your head with my love
My darling man

Taking up your worries
I throw them to a place where neither you or I will go again
cheering with you as old pains fly through the universe
your chest rises easily
no more damaging life medals to weigh you down

If you slither down into a familiar pit
I'll break my arms to lift you out
Wringing the necks of familiar serpents on our ascent
we'll then make garish bone necklaces to laugh at.

When the sun sleeps
we will not
because we will make loudness a beautiful thing
a cacophony of sound will stir the bedbugs
we will make the perfect pillows unravel

And when the sun puts the moon in her place
I'll kiss your eyes open.