Invincible summer |||

Staying regular

This is my nearly morning exercise: 
not poetry, but verse, written one-hand-
ed on the bog. Pound said that everyone 
from seventeen to twenty-three tries 
to write poetry. No: has to. A gland 
perhaps, or similar. Only the mun-
dane care of tools keeps real writers at it 
when the red gush of inspiration’s gone. 
Trying not to gush, I push my pencil 
through broken metre, infinitely split 
meanings; keep it sharp for when the one 
surge of truth demands strong words to cancel 
all those mediocre pages. This wasn’t it. 
I’ve sat here once again, producing shit.