.
Dispiration
I have nothing to say,
Not a thought in my head.
If I needed to pray
There would be nothing said.
Just a large empty space
And no functioning brain,
With the mouth on my face
Filled with nothing worth saying.
It’s a bad case of “Writ-
er’s block,” “Brain freeze” or worse;
It is absence of light,
It’s a bane and a curse.
Though I ooze perspira-
tion and strain every gnat,
There is no inspira-
tion to pull from my hat.
I’m “At sea,” “Lost in space,”
“Empty-headed” as if
Someone tried to erase
Every jot, rune and glyph.
I am stuck in the mud,
I’ve been cut, I’ve been benched.
Every fuse is a dud;
All my fire has been quenched.
My own muse has turned mute
And my tongue has been tied.
Nothing seems to compute,
It’s as if I have died.
“Don’t pass Go!” “No Return,”
“Out of mind,” “Out of breath.”
Everywhere that I turn
Is “the blue screen of death.”
I’ve said more than enough
You’ve by now caught my drift.
Writing poetry’s tough
When the gears will not shift.
.
.
I’d Rather
To write a poem may well be a portent
Of putting off what might be more important.
Instead of cleaning toilets, off I go
To conjure up the words for a rondeau.
My wife complains I’m wasting precious time
When I take days to find a perfect rhyme
But when compared with chores that must be done,
Creating limericks is far more fun.
Yet while I idly sit and create verse,
The mole-holes in my lawn keep getting worse.
And why should I be thinking up a sonnet
When my front door has mold and mildew on it?
But given all the things I need to do,
I’d rather write a poem, wouldn’t you?
.
.
James A. Tweedie is a retired pastor living in Long Beach, Washington. He has written and published six novels, one collection of short stories, and three collections of poetry including Mostly Sonnets, all with Dunecrest Press. His poems have been published nationally and internationally in The Lyric, Poetry Salzburg (Austria) Review, California Quarterly, Asses of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online, Better than Starbucks, WestWard Quarterly, Society of Classical Poets, and The Chained Muse.
I’m laughing out loud, James — really enjoyed these this morning! And that’s saying something, since I don’t normally like poems about writing poems. 🙂 I especially love “I’d Rather” — it’s so true! Just one suggestion: To even out the meter in line 9 of the sonnet, perhaps “Yet while I idly sit creating verse,” ?
Cynthia, I’m glad I made you laugh! What a wonderful thing it is to greet the day with a smile and a guffaw! And I like your suggestion for the improvement. Thanks for that. I hope the rest of your day will be filled with more laughter.
“I’d Rather,” perfectly matches my mind set. I really enjoyed reading such an admission from one of my poet friends.
Ah, the vicissitudes that come in our lives
Must be understood by our long patient wives!
Roy, Thanks for the comment and thanks for the couplet for our long-suffering spouses.
I too would rather be writing a sonnet
than shining the Rolls’s bonnet
or writing an ode
than spring cleaning my abode.
Thanks for two belly-laughers, James.
Paul,
You are very welcome. I actually know a local lawyer who owns a classic Rolls.
I’d rather write a poem.
James, you have summed up to perfection the pain we all go through with this writing malarkey. I cannot for one minute imagine a poet like yourself ever cleaning toilets. A great blast of humour today. Thank you.
Jeff, I have done toilets since my first job as a preschool custodian during my second and third year of high school! My middle daughter tells me she grew up thinking that toilets where one of the things all husbands did. When she married her high school sweetheart she was surprised to discover that toilets are not on the approved house-hold honey-do list for most men.
As far as I’m concerned there is no doubt
That modern, indoor, plumbing is a joy! Let’s
Not forget the good old backyard out
House and give thanks each time we flush our toilets
James, what an entertaining but inopportune case of spring fever! I don’t accept “Dispiration” as a poem about writer’s block; you are just too busy cracking lines to show off your wild rhymes. I identify a little better with “I’d Rather,” but I am good at putting off both fresh writing and spring cleaning. You did what isn’t so easy in a couplet sonnet, by making that final couplet most appealing. And congratulations on the very clever “toilets” rhyme in your reply to Jeff Eardley.
Thank you, Margaret, for your edifying comment. I must confess that the constant attempt to be “clever” can be both mentally and physically taxing. I may, in fact, go to bed early tonight so as to be well-rested and be even more clever tomorrow.
I know the feeling, but leave it to you to make something of it.
The gears of time prepare our death
But don’t provide a bed to lie in.
A kilogram of crystal meth
Is not the bed you want to die in.
Slow down, slow down, you stupid fools,
And note the region whence you came,
Where idle fingers are the devil’s tools
And crimes have been committed in your name.
Somewhat grim, C.B. But thanks for the affirmation.
Joyful and lighthearted poems from a great poet
thank you
hope springs eternal
very strange this muse creature,
to me, quite a selective feature ,
if she ever pays a visit I will ask
why she never made it past
a rhyme or two and instead
she teases me with games
akin to peek a boo, so why or
why must I think of rhyme
and meter, when I have work to do?
-I know one day I’ll beat her
I’ll have her know I’m not a quitter!
Nice comment and cute Pom. Thanks.
James, I’m with you all the way with “I’d Rather”. Writing verse sure beats cleaning gutters or scrubbing mold off bathroom surfaces.
Your wrap-around words in “Dispiration” are used to great effect.
Thank you, David. I’m glad you were entertained!
here’s my version of this – The Ecumenical Hymn
There’s only one religion: it’s “Keep Fred from his work,”
And from their fond devotions worshippers never shirk.
All Dogs and Cats and Chickens devote their lives to me:
They whimper, cluck, and bluster – sacred cacophony.
These lives of interruption are matched by humankind
Who whine and phone and e-mail lest they be left behind.
They google for my address, they love the old “db”
And send hot stock tip futures to “bckcd.”
Perhaps it is an offer to spend a million bucks
To save african widows of wealthy muck-a-mucks;
Perhaps it is a schoolgirl, so virgin and refined,
Who wants me to see actions she can’t spell or define.
Disaster’s the sacrament by which they all explore
Their need to keep me jumping, or crawling ‘crost the floor.
They borrow cars, and mine too, and smash them fore and aft
So I will be distracted and can’t pursue my craft
Their consumerist refuse they spread out everywhere
So I will spend my hours picking what should not be there
Their cans and bladdery bottles are all along the streams
So every one who passes can can utter ugly screams.
The plumbing’s their cathedral, it does its work so well
We cannot now remember past freedom from its spell.
And as I write these verses I must go up and see
What makes the upstairs toilet stink so incessantly,
Computers are their angels, the hard drives hump and grind,
The internet is hung up with files they cannot find,
And when there is the prospect of half an hour’s work
The motherboard starts smoking, just like some teenage jerk.
The folk in distant countries well know they can’t intrude
directly on my labours, and so they must explode
large bombs or burn up oil, to worry me at night
So I can’t write or study, as all know would be right.
The whole world is united in a one vast chorus glad.
Their touching veneration would only make me sad,
But if this hymn is reckoned a kind of meagre work,
the power’s bound to go off before it’s…
…brought to the attention of conspiracy theorists –
Dispiration: How do I love it…. let me count the ways!!
My kind of fun and bouncy, clever rhyme, meter and subject matter. Thank you James. Wish I had written it.
Thank you, Norma. Next time around you can have a turn!