Good evening, and welcome my blog.
Last Sunday, I was waiting for Blue Planet II to start, and had a 45 minutes to wait. I decided to try and write a poem in that time.
But what I did do, was inadvetently record the struggle that so often happens to me when I am trying to think up a poem.
This is a glimpse into that struggle.
Waiting for David
It’s 7:15pm on Sunday night. I’ve got 45 minutes – not a second more. 45 minutes to write a poem, 45 minutes to conceive and craft a worthy piece.
And why the urgency? Blue Planet II is on at 8 O’clock, and I don’t want to miss that- oh no. You just don’t miss the Attenborough.
For once, I’m in pretty good shape – it’s been a good day in terms of jobs done. But it’s not been perfect – no banjo practise today, and I’m still waiting for that egg to cool down. Slave to an egg, that’s me.
Perhaps that is what I should write about: waiting to make egg mayo sandwiches. I know it doesn’t sound exciting – but you never know, there could be a whole niche market of sandwich filling based poetry, just waiting to be conquered. For all I know, “Ode to Coronation Chicken” Might just be my break into the big time.
I love David Attenborough. I bloody love him.; he is an institution, a national treasure, and the Icon of my lifetime. He’s always been there, like a comfort blanket, giving me a warm feeling of security, but not dribbled on, or stained by rusks. David Attenborough could present a programme about wardrobes, and I’d watch it. In fact, it’s a little known fact thar he doesn’t just do programmes about nature;
I once saw him present a programme that explained how the Titanic was put together, and I can honestly say, it was riveting.
7:30pm – fifteen minutes gone, wasted, evaporated. I haven’t got a clue what to write about. I’m still thinking about Blue Planet II. Maybe that is what I should write about, the life in our oceans: the sharks, fish, octopi etc. I could even write about crabs – who wouldn’t want to hear about crabs?
I’m suddenly reminded of a blind date I once had…………..
Hang on – the cat has just come in, and is now crunching his dinner. His cat food stinks – it’s meant to be biscuits flavoured with Tuna and Salmon, but I doubt that there is any actual fish content in that food at all. The cat obviously thinks the same, as he has just walked out again.
Come on, I need to write something – time is getting on.
You see, I set myself this goal of writing a poem on a Sunday night, so that I would have time to review it mid-week before publishing it on the Friday. The trouble is, it’s hard to review something that hasn’t actually been written. Actually, that isn’t true – it isn’t hard, it’s easy: You just say “nothing that needs changing here”.
I notice my socks: they are red – but not bright red; they’re more the type of red colour that white socks would go if you were to bleed heavily into them.
Dear God, I’m rambling now; going on about bloody socks – in both senses of the word! I can hear David Attenborough narrating this scene in my head, as if I was the subject of a nature programme:
“Here we see the would-be poet, sitting in a quiet corner of his habitat. He rocks back and forth, staring at his bloodied feet. In his left hand, a pen; in his right, a notebook. His teeth are clenched tightly together in frustration, as he desperately tries to think of something to write about. As mating displays go, this surely must be nature’s poorest. None of the females are coming anywhere near.”
7:48pm – Twelve minutes to go. No poem in sight.
I’ve got two other pairs of socks; One set is purple and they make my feet look horribly bruised – as if they were smashed in retribution in a mob vendetta. The other set are grey, and give the impression that I have really bad circulation – which is ironic, because I do. Some days, I cannot tell if I am wearing socks or not.
Oh dear lord, more sock ranting – shut up man! You can’t write a poem about your socks!
The children are exchanging insults in a relaxed, almost musical manner in the living room. “You’re a Pooooooooo!!!”, flutters tunefully down the hall to the room I am in. Even with that gem on a plate, my mind refuses to pick it up and run with it.
Mind you, it is a poo – so I do understand to an extent.
I wouldn’t run with a poo – or scissors for that matter. But if I picked up the poo with the scissors, would that be okay? Could I still run? Or would they cancel each other out?
It’s 8pm – Blue Planet II is starting. I haven’t written my poem.
David has come to save me.