Where’s the reason, where is all the rhyme?
There is verse coursing through my brain.
It’s dead of night and, in unearthly time,
words, like old confetti, the church yard stain.
Sleepless to Bedlam I shall surely go,
if I can’t pour this honey on the page.
I hear a verse from opera, Turandot;
it’s like a fever, even more, a plague.
So, I should stir myself and search my mind,
write it down, so clear, in semi-conscious state,
but when the honey flows, it leaves me blind;
so near and yet so far, it’s gone, too late!
Perhaps I should direct my energy
to invent a chip; implant it in my brain;
digitally capture words that come to me;
it would probably be nonsense, all the same.
So I shall write it as and when it comes,
however, words will find their way to me.
Whether it’s a whole verse or merely crumbs,
you cannot force this creativity.
© 2010 John Anstie
(Read the author’s commentary on this poem)