It’s odd to think
my magnum opus lies
in liquid form
before my eyes.
Strange really when you think about the relationship between the ink, the pen and your brain and how they must be in harmony for ideas to germinate and escape across the virgin page.
At the start of every new notebook I am reminded of the closing lines to my favourite poem by Seamus Heaney, “Digging” a piece about his father. The poem ends….
“I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it”.
And that also reflects my style of writing, I’m not blessed with the ability to just write, my “poems” are well and truly dug out of the myriads of edits that litter my notebook.
One day I might just get it right.
[c] D. Archer. October 2013
The trouble with writing
poems in bed
when you can’t be arsed
to get up for a pen,
is that you convince yourself
you’re too talented to forget
yet you wake with only fragments,
“what the hell came next?”
© Copyright D. Archer October 2011
Genuine. Written in response to the best poem that was ever written in the history of mankind. The one I wrote that would have changed the course of human history, the one that would have stopped all wars and ended famine because the world would have come together in joyous celebration under the universe. The poem I could not be arsed to write down because it meant getting out of bed and finding a pen.
It’s hard to write monstrous prose
when the sun is shining
and barbecues smoke.
Chitter chatter endless banter
In shaded guarded gestures
neighbours sign the clandestine
affairs of the street.
I, half listening,
pen the pedestrian verse;
“death before defeat”.
I stop. Four lines write themselves.
“There must have been a summer in the war,
yet only winter springs to mind;
the dead shelled over my shoulder
not enough to be killed the first time”.
Copyright D. Archer October 2011