In my teens I tried to write
But other voices squeezed my ear
In bed at night I oft times heard
The whisperings of sensuous Keats.
I thought that I should ‘modernise’
I sensed I should not be archaic,
Speaking from another time,
And so I read all the poets
Scrawling words on backroom presses,
The ones they published in black ink
That stained my stubby finger nails.
They shunned rhyme, rhythm, soundscapes
Often angry, sometimes clever.
Derivative, derivative
Was the cry that pinned me down.
So I put away all books
And went to listen, kept my silence,
As poets talked all night
Over wine and cigarettes.
I heard the need to find your voice,
The need to fall in love with words,
The need to see it as a puzzle,
Never driven by ideas.
Let sounds and music steer your way
And see the thoughts emerge