I can’t write poetry
Just cannot
Not something I’m all that aware of really
In my oh so humble opinion
See, poems are for recluses
People utterly unable to find something better to do with their time
A way of making them believe that they will eventually write themselves on out of a hole…
On into an absolute fortune
Seems money won’t buy you happiness, my friend
But if you do like the fresh smell-as-a-daisy of that note
Then feel free to keep on scribbling
However, if you really do believe you have what it takes
Then do me just one favour, please
Don’t rabbit on at others about your business all of the goddamn time!
Rather know why it is you came to write in the very first instance
Wrote no less than eighteen poems once, myself
Eighteen poems and I said I knew nothing, right?
In fact, I do so much as consider it to be something of a rather pretentious pursuit
I mean it’s like with anything really
You keep on scribbling, editing… and editing some more
Like adapting to a newborn baby
‘Til such time as I finally found myself with two well-fed poems which I really liked
One called ‘Desperate Times, Desperate measures’
The other titled ‘The Perfect Wife, the Perfect Life’
The first got framed and handed on over to my father at Christmas time
The latter of the two I gave as a gift to a friend on her special wedding day
As well as it managing to somehow make it onto the pages of a poetry magazine of sorts
No great shakes but a published poem nonetheless
So scribble away to your heart’s content
Don’t be listening to the naysayers
Rather lend an all too constructive ear to criticism
Remember, poetry’s like any other kind of writing
There’s you – the writer, and that oh so blank page
Place the pair atop one another and inevitably you will get to figure it out one way or other
Whether it gets read by one or a million-and-one people
You’ll do well to remember this
It is only ever left down to you – the writer
And that oh so blank albeit about to become oh so colourful page
So my literary friend
And you are literary whether you know it or not
Your next few poems may well turn out crass
But the one after that may well turn out to be the next great success on the market
All I can say is good luck to you
Keep on plugging away at it
Keep on scribbling…
Hell, keep on doing whatever it is you are doing
Let your words fill the page ‘til there’s more than enough ink-weight to keep it firmly placed inside the palm of a publisher’s hand