Five reasons why I shall never be a Great Poet.

So my NaNoWriMo wordcount for Thursday was 0, which by a strange coincidence matches my Friday wordcount. Today i have a free day in which to get my head down and crack on with the writing - except I can't get settled. It really is a bugger!

So instead I drafted an idea of a poem, the first draft of which I post for your entertainment below:

[ahem...]

Five reasons why I shall never be a Great Poet.

1. I do not read contemporary poetry
A good book of poetry is like
a friend come home to rest
his head on my lap. My friends
are old, dusty: cats
in covers. The shiny,
new friends must not be trusted -
I read them with adult eyes
and adult eyes
are poor.

2. I do not like discussing poetry
The way the chatter found its way
to verse was strange; a journey round
the hills of glamour magazines,
celebrity affairs. We passed
beyond to news, the politics
of sex and scandal kept our lips
in spit for ages then - without
a care we parked our switch-back chat
on novels, writers, folks who use
the pen to charm and stroke and trash
each other: critics, poets. I
fell silent then, and drunk my beer.

3. I do not like promoting myself
The man who dresses windows
doesn't have a name - not one I know
in any case. And yet I know him
through his choice of colour,
fabric. Metal paints - not matt -
tell me he's a chancer man
who tempts and treats his audience
with products dressed to fix
their needs, their hopes and dreams
all solved - exchange some cash
and take away the merchandise!
I know the clever man who dresses
windows, Mister no-name man.
I know he isn't me.

4. I can't abide poetry readings
The beast is circled now, the strutted hunters
have forced it back and back until it feels
the cold, hard walls against its back, the podium
beneath its feet. They're gathered now in rows
that swirl around its feet and some of them
have riders now, mostly pink with frocks
and shirts and comfy shoes, drinks in one hand
and papers, rustly prisons, gripped tight
tonight ready to torture the circled beast
called poetry, poor art.

5. I don't understand the publishing game
Dear sir! I'd like to thank you dearly
from the bottom of my sharded heart
for taking time to reject my verse
in such a pleasant manner. The note
was crisp and white and creased
so clinically, my heart near flew
in admiration. And when I'd caged it
once again it fluttered when I saw
your note matched - line for line
and crease for crease - the other notes
you sent me just last week,
and the month before!