Full Stop

[dedicated to the revival of writing]

When your pen’s been dry and paper blank,

when the ashes of your fire refused to light,

when you smelled the blossom and found no fragrance,

when you walked the streets and hummed no melody of thought,

when the Virus left you cold, too safe to care,

you’ve been doing research.

You’ve let the song of birds sink in.

You’ve let the sight of butterflies thrill your garden.

You’ve let the taste of tepid tea touch you.

When the temperature of conversations escapes your notice,

your pen is standing by, your paper clean

Full stop.

Don’t make your poems rhyme

Don’t make your poems rhyme,

unless you’re a genius with syllables.

Don’t stuff yourself into a wedding dress,

nor imitate Cinderella’s sisters.

Half-rhymes are a different matter,

provided you miss the end of the line.

Ignore my view if you’re happy

to write mediocre cant,

bland, sentimental, niceties

your friends will lap up

and forget.

Crimes against umbrellas,

fine, generous and irritating

stress on the wrong core

of earth where you scatter salt

pepper, cardamom and treacle.

Stop fretting over dictionaries

in search of le bon mot.

You’re better to scatter and slant perspiration

before you blame your education.

I am a writer

I am a writer
a born writer
published by a womb

Handwritten by a nib from an inkwell
between the lines
a joined-up writer

I am a copy writer
essays scribbled from memory

Minutes taken at meetings
reporter, drafter,
instructing others

Propaganda scribe
editor of text
pointed editorials

I am a writer
I want to be published
I have nothing to say
except what you want to hear.


And I am a writer
I create
thoughts I own
feelings I conceive
imaginations I imagine

I write in a vacuum I design for my muse
floating in space.


I too am a writer
a bought writer
my labour earns me food, shoes, shelter
I compose with blood, sweat and fingers fit for travel
to Atlantis and Arthritis.


I am writing my way through a stone,
as if a schizoid elephant
home from Kubla Kahn

“I used to love hating poetry” – poem by Lars Blichfeldt 

I made the poem ‘one day’ after a period of not being able to write anything I thought was good enough.

No matter what, it ended up with me being frustrated or disappointed.

It left me with two choices. 

I could give up trying to write because I wasn’t the new Whitman – just an average guy that actually needed to practice and make mistakes to learn and improve.

To actually believe that two months of writing would place me anywhere near what others have taken years to master is ridiculous…. I know.

Nevertheless, it was exactly what I hoped for. Being good at something without doing any kind of effort to achieve it.

But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what stops us from giving up before we even begin.

My second choice was to face the facts and just carry on practicing. To keep writing no matter how lousy the outcome would be.  

I choose the last.

Now give me 10 years and I will write you a masterpiece. In the meantime, here’s a hell of a try😉

Thank you for taking your time to read this.

I used to love hating poetry.

Written by those who failed

living the expected life themselves.

Now wrapping-up words

in riddles and fancy glitter.

To attain the unattainable.

Narcissistic socialists

breathing the universe

while reminding the masses

to be satisfied just looking at the sun.

I did.
I looked at the sun.


Perhaps I was wrong.
Perhaps I was the failure.

I started writing.

It felt refreshing.

Pats on the back,

Polite comments and praises.

I was seduced,
intoxicated by appreciation.

Soon I would be the lump of coal
transforming into a diamond

The winning ticket
The one in a million.
Without practice.
Without effort.
A unicum.
This “new” me..
A thinker..
A writer..
A word wrapper..
A poet..

What I loved to hate,
I now hated to love.

Thinking like a child,
naive like a child,
I believed the sun turned around me.

One day I might grow up.
One day I might loose this spirit.

Hopefully it won’t be soon.



A big thank you to Lars Blichfeldt 

You can read other poems by Lars here & here