Thursday, September 27, 2007

Writer’s Curse

We drove down the road, perhaps
picking up McDonald’s for tea
on our way somewhere, perhaps -
                                    I forget -
but it doesn’t matter.

My children, 3 blonde boys,
lean over the back of the front seat
as I scribble a few lines waiting
for the lights to change.

‘Everything isn’t a poem Mum’
the eldest complains
and I hear in his voice:

writing our lives down. Click the nib
back into your pen and pay attention to us.
Not the fat lady waiting for the bus,
or the red car whose stereo pulses the street.

He has his fingertip poised
on the mother-guilt button.
I want to put down my pen

but the long rows of trees
marshalled inside my head whisper
through their fir-finger branches.

There’s no silence,
                              no rest.
The terrible pukekos of my dreams
rush to me pecking and smothering
with their loathsome feathers
as I sit on the road
                              unable to rise.

Words trip, tumble, stumble –
so loud in my head
they clamour for the needle’s eye,
plastic tube of ink,
that feeds the paper.


Blogger Chris Never said...

This is excellent, but you gotta fix those  unable,  no, etc...

I just cannot get over the distraction of them lol.

4:07 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

do you mean the lines that are moved in from the margin?

4:12 PM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

yup, I cant read em

4:19 PM  

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