Words In Progress - Poem by Stephen Beattie
An idea has formed, become a cappuccino
of word phrase and image. Now the ingredients
require a quenching of ink; black mind,
no brash blue or insanity purple. Black
as a mark of respect or words will be stillborn.
Yet more conjurors tricks must be enlisted to ease
this labour. Every household task must be exhausted;
the room warmed, couch comfortable, author
at an ambient temperature. Words are cantankerous
creatures, only hatching when conditions are correct.
The mind must be cleansed with a browsing
of TV, newspaper and CD collection. When all is done
and the task begun- it’s time for a cup of tea,
glass of wine or an aimless meander through
the dining room- only then can one hope to feel a draft.
After a nice nap under a quilt of discarded paper
it’s time to face up to what you have done. Examine
midnight words now they’ve tumbled from mind
to page. Stare at them in disbelief, rage loudly
like a disillusioned parent, because words never achieve
what is expected. Then, because there is no choice,
recharge your pen and start right over again
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