Dearth of Verse

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A dearth of verse
Makes me wonder
Whether my inner life
Is playing second fiddle
To putting myself on the stage

I’m living in interesting times
And putting my shoulder to the wheel
Leaving precious little time
For introspection
Or verse

But I’m bottling up less
Speaking up and plainly
Maybe that’s why verse has subsided
Perhaps some inner tension
Has subsided too

Poets die younger
Performers live longer
To my surprise
I’m currently happier performing
Than turning terse into verse.

Terse Verse

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If music be the food of love
Is poetry a bowlful of life?

A question crossed my mind the other day – do I only spontaneously write poetry when I’m cross about something? I’m sure I’ve written happy poems, but the impulse to bash out some verse seems to come more often than not through irritation, stress or annoyance. And often banal and mundane at that – from flat tyres to ineffective dishwasher tablets. Take this one:

Duzzit doesn’t

Rare to see such disinformation
In a modern formulation
Dishwasher tablets are all the same?
But Duzzit is to blame
No discernible cleaning
A film all over my pots
Unilever and P&G may be pricey
But their brands leave no spots.

This set me thinking. I read a few months back that musicians live longer, poets die sooner. Is it a bit like comedians? Making people laugh is – by all accounts – a sad person’s trade.

Perhaps it varies from person to person. But, for me, I think poetry comes more often as a venting of steam than a bucolic breeze. Still, better out than in.