Roses Are Red

After a fairly lengthy enforced break, I'm now back with some more writery stuff. Basically, there was an assessment that I hadn't handed in for my degree, and the uni said that if I didn't give it to them in a month, I was royally screwed. The upshot of this was that I had to research and write three news articles in four weeks: this is trickier than it sounds, especially when you don't have a clue what you're doing. Still, after much blood, sweat, tears and cursing, I managed to get it all done and handed in on Tuesday (and getting to London on the same day as a train drivers' strike was an adventure in itself...), and that nightmare is now out of my hair. Remember, kids: do your work when you're told to do it, not two months after the deadline.

So, to celebrate my new freedom from work, I'm going to give you some poetry. This was something I did for Life Writing back in March, and at the time, under extreme duress. I despise poetry even at the best of times - reverse snobbery, I suppose you could say - but on reflection, this piece isn't so bad. From what I remember, the brief was to write a poem with three verses, four lines per verse and six words per line: we could choose whatever subject we liked, whether true-life or no, and with me having my twisted brain, I can up with this. And in case you're wondering, "Roses Are Red" was my original title, that legendary poetry cliche seeming like a fitting moniker for a poem on the mechanics of poetry: however, because only two other people got the joke, I decided to change it to the more self-explanatory title it now has. To my mind, the original title is still better, but never mind.

Anyway, here's the poem. Enjoy...

On Poetry And The Writing Of It

The pen observes the page, ready
to strike. The words hidden within
wish only to be written. But
this combined assault will never happen.

Bombs in Baghdad streets. Eleusinian mysteries
of love. Even how leaves grow
on spring trees. Pen nor words
will ever form shapes like these.

They wish to form shapes. They
wish it more than we’ll ever
know. But no shape is ever
tough enough for their iron will.