Thursday, April 27, 2006

More scribblings from the Gin Parlour


I have a little book
I call it 'Planting Seeds'
It doesn't cover gardening or
the misuse of certain weeds
It sits inside my handbag,
a sack of bottomless doom
a secondary part of me
a bag,
a life,
a womb where
the pen is always missing
when the words are coming in
so I've tied one to my little book
with a nasty piece of string
And when I spy a morsel
a tasty little crumb
a name,
a word,
a builders bum
I pull the string and enter in
your name, your birth
(for what it's worth)
your size and shape
and ample girth
to plant the seed
that I may need
to write.


skint writer said...

good poem - nice rhytym and rhyme, good imagery, but . . .

just wondering if you think that us writers dwell too much on the process of writing, you find it in even the most critically acclaimed writers' works and there are so many novels where one of the protagonists is a writer

I am a culprit too so no criticism intended

Hmmm said...

Like your poem

There is no need to do any housework at all. After the first four years the dirt doesn't get any worse.
Quentin Crisp

Unknown said...

I dwell, I dwell,
what can I say
there is no real critic
to tell me
'Nay, Minx stop,
you're crap,
(and give me a slap)
find another way'!