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I’m not creative

I’m not creative,

except in the sense that every human being is creative,

and, if every human is creative,

the word is fairly useless.

I’m not a creative writer,

except in the sense that every writer is creative,

and, if every writer is creative,

the word is superfluous.

 

I am simply

a person who writes,

a person who writes frequently

a person who writes in a certain style.

 

(I used to write letters every day and thought my letters were attractive.)

 

I’m cheesed off by the quantity of left-handed people who are ‘creative’.

I know the word has colloquial meanings –

people with original ideas

people who find brand new ways

artists, designers,

theatre, television, radio, film people

engineers, architects

marketing people

people who get their work exhibited

many more I can’t think of.

(As if dentists & grave-diggers weren’t creatives)

 

How useful is creative as a distinguishing word?

How often do you wish to say

you’re a creative person, a very creative person

and, by implication,

that person over there isn’t creative,

has barely a creative bone in their body’?

(I like ‘creativity means not copying

Feran Adria from elBulli said that)

 

When I write something people call creative,

I don’t know what they’d label ‘ordinary’.

I don’t know what criteria people use.

(I fear the lowest common denominator is ‘creative’.)

 

If I knew what standards people used

to describe a writer as creative

I’d understand.

 

The one thing I’m sure of,

I don’t dream of myself as a creative being.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Sunday

‘It’s hard

to start…’

______

After Sunday

A roll of the dice 

A cut of the cards

Slot-machines

Night and Day

rolled into one

Background & Hinterland.

Did Elvis chant

‘Let’s Strip You Bare’?

Music & Musaque 

‘ Where have all the jute-boxes gone?’

——

What’s your poison?

Your cocktail?

Your justification?

To be sure,

none of us expected you to order

“Massacre on the Rocks”.

No parrot sang

“Pretty Polly

Off your trolly

No folly

Pretty Polly

Off-duty

Police officer

Nurse

Local government employee

A couple of Canadians

With his fiancé 

A very good mother

Heavy-duty mechanic apprentice

Maple Ridge

Big Sandy

Henderson

23

29

20

22,000

Vesuvius 

Pompeii on the Strip

_______

‘I won’t be right

until I’ve written 

– even then

I won’t be right.

I lost my heart in Vegas

Nevada

Cork.’

Nobody but you

There are too many bloody good people around
They make me sick with their good intentions
Puke with Generosity
Retch with Universal Love
Angels cast in vomit.

Too many spirits carry the burden of pain
– as if one snake’s venom was bedfellow
to a reptilian Collective Conscience.
Give me the fiery “Go fuck your trouble
anyday.

Stop feeling for me.
Cut out the empathy surrogacy.
Drown in your trade-marked tears.
Do something for yourself.
Go walk your own mile.

Go be nobody but you.
Isn’t it hard enough to live one life

than to be mother to another?

So many good people

Twas a bitter night,
earthworms driven deep,
swifts and swallows flown from sight,
few nuts laid to sleep.

On the road well-trudged
shoes sliding behind,
crowds into my face misjudged,
to their rhythm blind.

An all-weather pitch,
hummingbirds and rats,
a carpet woven eldritch,
oodles of green hats.

Twas a spark, a flame,
kindling wood for home
way beyond a trace of shame,
whispering coxcomb.

Too many good people
abroad with wisdom,
blessed good loving people
mend sorrow’s kingdom.

Waiting for something to happen 

Waiting for something to happen 

that isn’t 

already

waiting for something 

that Godot 

missed,

Waiting for someone

to hiccup 

more than me.

You see

waiting is (a) creating

gestating

sublimating

art

Not Farting But Founding… 

—————

Will 

The rain fall?

The toilet flush?

The doorbell ring?

Will

The jackdaw land?

The chicken lay?

A pony snort?

Will

That fish spawn?

This hiccup die?

Her tongue melt?

Her wit end?

Her scream echo?

Will

Friday follow?

The poet’s grip falter?

Your journey age?

Will

The albatross be called Wisdom?

My hummingbird depart?

My sign language strike a chord?

Your fingernails warm?

Waiting for something to happen…

A story take on a character?

This ceremony embrace your destiny?

My watch tick?

Tim Miller wake in time 

to catch Godot working?

Miracles

Waiting for something to happen. 

Ages Apart 

Ages Apart

I was talking to Pytheas of Massilia on Friday.

He was still in the grip of a cold he caught

returning from Thule.

Twas as if the world’s oldest albatross

– whom some call Wisdom –

sang with a bee hummingbird

that fled Cuba from Irma to Cork.

Such was the storm song …

such the Artic bass …

My Greek lapsed as I left the Parthenon,

his Irish, foreign, tinged with Scots Gallic,

guttural.

We stuck to sign language,

ice on his fingernails.

I put that down to the disgrace

that few believed his stories.

Wrapped in song,

building melody

on staves of flesh,

major and minor,

there was little between us.

Harmony.

Ceremony.

Destiny.


Two men with hearts

dependant on blood

lightly to coagulate

in hurricanes predicted to return

(and persist).

__________________

I must tell Tim Miller

Pytheas read his poem

in the Shetlands,

despite the middle-aged ‘stupidity’

never learned from pilgrims.

Smiles we made over gin and tonic,

over ice.


We called our chorus

Brothers from Earth’


We are brothers from Earth,

conceived in shadows’ stage,

conjoined and free in birth,

alive in every age.