It's about 5 days before when I actually start to think
about it. I’ve been mulling it over in the back of my head since the date and
theme were announced, but to actually think, deliberately, and with purpose, 5
days. That’s 120 hours from the speed of the idea to standing up with my smart
phone throwing caution to the wind.
It works like this. I suddenly realise I haven’t got a clue
what I want to write. I know I want to stay on topic, I’m very anal about that.
No matter what the subject I must deliver at least one poem that hit’s the
theme, however tenuous. So hour one, realisation, rabbit in the headlights, an
idea is needed.
I stare out of the window at the passing world and create
two lines. These are going to be the basis around which the whole work is
created. I smile and know I now have 119 hours to make it work. Hour two,
slight panic.
Everything in the next few days is simple and carefree, I
have four, three, two days to come up with something else, not an issue, I’m throwing
words away in this time, like they mean nothing.
Then comes the next momentous event in the process, I’m an
hour from going to bed on the Thursday night. Less than twenty four hours from
now I will be sat in the Number 5 Cafe listen to the works of other truly
talented poets and it hits me, “I want these people to like what I do.”
The carefree attitude that has caused me to be so disposable
with my scribblings changes. Ego has come for a visit and told me to pull my
socks up.
“How can you be taken seriously by these people” he says
stretching his hand towards an imaginary photo of the Dead Good Poets dressed
for graduation as if they had just stepped out of a John Hughes movie “They
know what they’re talking about, you must try harder, for my sake.”
“Ok, Ego,” I reply somewhat in shock, “I’ll make a sandwich
and get on with it.”
Ego smiles at me, but not in a happy way, more a kind of
“You’d better” sort of sneer.
I go to the refrigerator to gather everything required for
the assembly of a cheese sandwich. I pick up the butter, bottle of salad cream
and pull the draw open where the cheddar lives. I notice a couple of bottle of
Beck’s Veir hiding at the back of the middle shelf.
“You alright there fellas?” I ask greeting them.
“We are too there sir.” replies to one on the right in a
West Country accent, “writing poems again?”
I smile, “Am I that obvious?”
The Veir on the right just smiles while the more Welsh
sounding bottle on the left pipes up, “The theme for this month, what is it?”
“The Olympics?” I shrug.
“And what have you got already?”
I have an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment which I try
and hide from my hopie friends by looking down at my feet and mumbling.
“What was that?” said Left.
“Speak clearly?” demanded right.
“And that is how I won gold...” I pause, breathe, “at the
sexual Olympics.”
Some people say that the cruelest sound in the world is the
echoing howls for an animal in pain that you have no chance of helping. I argue
that your beers laughing at your humble attempts at verse from the inner
sanctum of your own fridge can make you feel worse.
I slam the door shut. It’s doesn’t stop the sound of the
chuckles, just reduces the volume. I continue with my bread and dairy composite
and return to my laptop. I want a glass of milk to help, but the bullying I
know that would come from the beer is too much to handle.
Now, I have to make this work, Ego is relying on me. I
finish my sandwich, put on my headphones, select something I think will help,
at the moment that always seems to be David Bowie. For this task, it has to be
Diamond Dogs.
Stretching my arms out, interlocking my fingers and cracking
my knuckles I breathe deep. The keyboard looks slightly blurry. I begin to
type, pushing the flashing black cursor over to the right giving
this new work a title “The Sexual Olympics.”
The blank page looks bigger than the room, I blink, take
another breath. It’s this next moment that I can never get used to, as part of
my preparations, my routines, I always take this opportunity to fall into a
very deep sleep of which I am unaware until my partner Heather, taps me on the
shoulder at 4am to ask me if I’m coming to bed.
I look up at her with surprise and notice the look on her
face. She has just read the title and is wearing disapproval very well.
“And what did the beer have to say about this?” she asks.
“I think they’ve stopped laughing now?”
She shakes her head, “You’ll be fine, do what you always do
and write it at work tomorrow.”
Her trusting tone makes everything calm, Ego smiles and nods
in agreement.
The preparation is what you have to do for you. Everything
you read is just an opinion, you have to try them on and see how they look, and
what works, works. For me it’s being remanded by my ego and ridiculed by my
beer. Everything else is just my own fault.
4 comments:
Colin,
Thanks for joining us here at the blog. Thanks also for allowing me to read your work on Friday night.
It was very well-received and I wish you'd been there to take your deserved applause.
Ash
And the key to it all of course is when you write "I'll make a sandwich and get on with it".
Nourishing procrastination does not ever receive the credit it deserves in the creative process: I'll bet all of us have made more pre-poem comfort food (or bought it) than have written poems to satisfy ourselves, let alone others.
Thanks for so many giggles at recognising myself, Colin.
Thank you Ash for your Kind words.
You're right Christo, most people do not admit the importance of comfort food while writing.
When I wrote Mathamagical I consumed 35,166 crisps whilst writing only 28,582 words to complete the children's novel thus proving your food to words ratio is correct.
Hiya Colin,
Your poem was very funny - Ego needn't have worried. Poetry is 60% procrastination, 1% scribbling and 39% deletion. That's my scientific analysis. And yes, it is possible to delete more than you scribble.
Thanks for a fun post :)
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