It from an idea, metaphoric,
to flash across the sky, meteoric.
Yet, not be left shocked and catatonic.
Or be subject of ‘Alas Poor Yorick’.
Progress along the dark water at night.
Address the mysteries which may delight.
Very best poetry find to recite.
Turn into gold, the coal-black anthracite.
Prove that am not mentally sclerotic.
Or obsessed only by the erotic.
May match-up weirdly, some other topic
with a comparison that’s exotic.
And that meteor, with its tail of flame
inspires me to imagine yet again.
Sonnets scratched-out on the prison cell walls,
comprising the alterations, and all.
Still can understand messages extols.
Text in the stonework to read and recall.
Sonnets on some toilet paper taken.
Odd sheets secreted during ablutions.
Write small to stay within perforation.
Light-tipped for recording the illusions.
‘Lift’ a pen or pencil for the poems,
or get one smuggled in to me, by means.
Use ‘tool’ to carve whatever disclosing.
As long as they’re written, my sonnet dreams.
Harassed by guards who my implements take,
but won’t stop me making my great escape.
I’m unable to be a blues writer.
No searing soul from the muddy delta.
Suffered no knockout blow as a fighter.
Don’t need to shout about “gimme shelter”.
Sure I’m aware of those blues in the night;
The sadness which comes that gives cause to weep.
Tough life lived, aspect of which, a song write.
Recording heartbreak, where the pain runs deep.
But a new version, now, is beyond me.
There is loss, but it is of property.
Love difficulties, more melancholy.
Much that encounter mediocrity.
Not the depth of slavery, …poverty.
My deepest blues is about deaths to be.
The effort at a song is spirited,
which may cause to be less inhibited.
That, in turn, could well mean less limited.
Inspiration, better distributed.
Showing up, apparent in the lyrics.
Confounding all the know-nothing critics.
What a drug addict used to call a fix,
injected magic for all sorts of tricks.
And that ingredient has energy.
A lively catalyst, this entity.
Surprising, the draft later come to see.
More so, as gets absorbed musically.
Talent, of course, to start to get near it,
but the songwriter’s secret is spirit.
A death noticed whilst on stage performing.
The words not forthcoming as expected.
Script undergoes impromptu re-forming,
until the memorised resurrected.
In the blank moment, efforts to cover.
Unspoken, but the show goes on somehow.
Rely on co-stars to help recover.
Their quick-witted rescuing needed now.
Hopefully, it only happens the once.
The remainder brought to mind as before.
From the near-disaster, put some distance.
A live performance can contain a flaw.
A curse, precursor with its empty ring.
We actors know it by the name ‘corpsing’.
An emphasis upon the difficult.
The emphasis on second syllables.
It’s fiendish. Created by Voldemort?
His sort of blackest form of ‘magicals’.
Applicable for putting weight of speech
in manner which is sort of up and down,
or loud and soft. If say so, special niche.
But, meaning lost. What re-emerges, found.
Yet, think of little else but realise.
The foot that’s back, the foot that’s front, repeat.
It’s really an alien enterprise.
No question successful. Not brooked, defeat.
A villain. Hard to produce, putting right.
It’s Voldemort and Potter. Dark and light.
An aged man is but a paltry thing.
A tattered coat upon a walking stick.
How soon before what the future will bring?
Shuffling, stumbling, yet still traces to kick.
O Sages standing in God’s holy fire,
were fastened to a dying animal.
To continue, is the flame of desire.
The beyond it’s claimed, but here’s magical.
Once out of nature, I shall never take
my bodily form as a lasting thing.
The nothing, then, next-to-nothing make,
without any sense when examining.
Spirit sailing to … who knows … paradise.
What remains, passing. All that can revise.
I merit it already; the medal.
The one the Queen awards for poetry.
Egotistical, but why backpedal.
My inflated self tells me “I agree”.
I’ve shown my mastery of the language.
My sonnets unique in their perspective.
So many rhymes, too, to my advantage.
My contribution to verse, effective.
And imagination, magnificent.
I imagine the medal pinned to me.
Honour, to which I’m not indifferent.
It’s like a soldier’s one for bravery.
So, come on Queen, time to recognise me,
with your medal to me for poetry.