WORDS HAVE FLED

The sunset on the 2nd January 2023 was stunning. I have been discussing it with the Secret Poets. We have been exchanging photographs and thinking how we must write something. I have not written anything over the festive period and this morning the words did not want to come.

THE POET LOST FOR WORDS

WHEN CONFRONTED BY A SUNSET

today the Broca’s Area of my brain

has become the Amazon rain forest

all trees chopped down

all treasures plundered

words have fled

scattered in the letters

that flee from the chainsaws

to peek from what foliage is left

I look at the sky

think how to begin...a river of lava

the stratosphere aflame

too close for comfort

this archetype

of all watercolour sunsets

is over used

worn paper thin

so I take a deep breath

continue to look upwards

and rejoice

at just what it is to be human

Yes, it is another poem about writing. I could not approach the beauty of the sunset any other way. My words were trite. Here is a revision of a much earlier poem. You can read the earlier draft here.

J.I.VING

You meet her under an umbrella.

It’s innocuous enough, a jazz concert,

you exploit my passion for camouflage.

She brings along her husband

who claims he once roomed

with a bloke who made a CD.

You face him across a round table

conversation is still born

no one looks at anyone else’s eyes.

Confirmation plays and the husband knows it.

I can remember not one note

but you two lean as close as you dare.

Outside in rain, after stilted farewells

and long last looks

I ask you what the hell you are about.

You quote someone else’s poetry

I shake my head and unlock the car.

I think this version is neater, whether it is better I leave to up you.

Black Stalin, the esteemed Calypsonian died last week. He will be missed. I leave you with Burn Dem.

Until next time.