Thursday 22 March 2018


Something I know, the blank page does not sing.

It glares and dares you, fool, to make your mark.

See how it hisses, bristling till you baulk

then rub it, smudging all its wild expanse.

Other things I know, a leather journal

cannot snare a word or hook a line

any better than a pound shop notebook,

a fountain pen can no more hunt for form

than drug-rep pens or chewed-up pencil stubs.

Fluorescent lights will not illuminate

your soul, nor two-for-ones, narcotic loops

of mindless tunes, where every little helps.

I know that inspiration is not found

feeding on ketchuped mounds of nuggets

and bolognaise or startled by the beam

of television screens. Step back, step back.

Creature of low light, early dawn forages,

twilight shufflings, try to catch its breath on

misty mornings, seek its tracks by evening.

Though sometimes, when you least expect, it slips

along with silent grace, and licks your hand.

Indo Review

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