Words Won’t Come

Martha LandmanIf your poem doesn’t contain truth and music, try again in a new poem.
— Peter Bakowski

On Wednesday the page stares blank
around him poets birth success

His creativity cobwebbed, crucified
he excavates and excavates
he labours and labours
intoxicated by dry absurdity

Frankly, his noble ambition, his
glasshouse heroism for once fails him

Overcome by a deep thirst he reaches
for a tequila the bloody Mary scatter-
brained on a single ginger beer
he decides to do the dishes

Sadly, no encouragement accompanied
the incoming message on his mobile phone

Wrecked inspiration, worn-out fervour
half-hearted pages crumpled in the corner
He asks his wife to dance, the music flows
into her coconut-flavoured hair

In the morning he submits that dance
poem and wins the Rhysling Award.

* * * * *

Marhta Landman resides in tropical Queensland, Australia, where she procrastinates on all other tasks to feed her poetry addiction. Her contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

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