THE LOCKER ROOM of LOST POEMS

The idea for this post's poem came in a rush, along with the title. I find titles difficult at the best of times. It is a skill to balance the poem with a title that does not give the game away, or offer a false set of expectations.
Once I had the title/line I let the poem steep in the back of my head for a couple of days. Then I spent about two weeks refining/revising the language.

The Poem's Disdain for the Poet

Above the layers of dream that hang thick over the city,

above the strata of hope that curves convex into the troposphere,

lies the locker room of lost poems.

The one's that die between thought and pen,

those no poet could shepherd on to the page.

It's a bleak affair. Metal lockers,

those thin wooden benches, bolted to the vinyl tiles.

And what an atmosphere - lost anticipation spiked through with regret,

where they mumble, where they grumble.

Oh, the poems disdain for the poet

when she fails to make them fly,

when he gets their words down wrong.

For the promiscuous poet can always follow another set of clues,

while they are written off forever.

I excised a line near the end of the process that I really liked, although it was not a fair description: like a roomful of Pete Best's.
Never having met the man I thought it was too nasty to use. For those younger readers Pete Best was sacked from The Beatles on the eve of them signing to Parlaphone. 
Anna Ternheim has just released a new LP All The Way To Rio [in Sweden at least, it comes out in the UK on the 1st December]. I can't find any videos from it on You Tube so here's a live version of her first hit [in Sweden] Shoreline.

Until next time. I am off to listen to my Swedish copy.