You know how sometimes, often quite inexplicably, you're suddenly electrifyingly alive and tingling with excitement? Because that's how I feel tonight. Absolutely no reason why, of course. But my whole being is bursting with it. I feel ridiculously romantic and keep remembering one old flame in particular - the one that got away; will I ever shake myself free of this? - and wanting so badly to write a love poem that it's practically scratching itself out on the tabletop with my nails. Yet here I am, knee-deep in Horizon files for the next issue of the magazine, and have no time to stop and write the thing that's driving me to distraction; besides which, this frustration is rather entertaining. Much better to be immolated by unrequited desire whilst pushing on regardless with my work, than to slump in a corner somewhere and drown myself uselessly in whisky. Besides which, I've already written one love poem recently - almost good, approaching good, certainly interesting at least - and it'll be out in the forthcoming Poetry Review. And I feel uncertain that I can repeat that success, or rather burn in the same way in a new and different poem. Love poems are so hard, almost impossible. It's still ringing in my head, that one. Ringing and shivering and burning. The poetic equivalent of absinthe.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Poetry Like Absinthe
You know how sometimes, often quite inexplicably, you're suddenly electrifyingly alive and tingling with excitement? Because that's how I feel tonight. Absolutely no reason why, of course. But my whole being is bursting with it. I feel ridiculously romantic and keep remembering one old flame in particular - the one that got away; will I ever shake myself free of this? - and wanting so badly to write a love poem that it's practically scratching itself out on the tabletop with my nails. Yet here I am, knee-deep in Horizon files for the next issue of the magazine, and have no time to stop and write the thing that's driving me to distraction; besides which, this frustration is rather entertaining. Much better to be immolated by unrequited desire whilst pushing on regardless with my work, than to slump in a corner somewhere and drown myself uselessly in whisky. Besides which, I've already written one love poem recently - almost good, approaching good, certainly interesting at least - and it'll be out in the forthcoming Poetry Review. And I feel uncertain that I can repeat that success, or rather burn in the same way in a new and different poem. Love poems are so hard, almost impossible. It's still ringing in my head, that one. Ringing and shivering and burning. The poetic equivalent of absinthe.
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3 comments:
Good news. No doubt that love poems are hard to write, you hear a lot of rubbish ones this time of year so the odd good one is great - good for you!
Hey, you haven't read it yet, so let's not jump the gun. My opinion is that it's 'almost good' but I'm the one who wrote it, so I would say that.
Thanks for the vote of confidence though!
Jx
"it's practically scratching itself out on the tabletop with my nails"
Oh, your post made me laugh. I can picture it ...
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