Transcription

poem

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Having said

Far more than you should,

Crumpled up the paper, and begun again

Saying too little this time, baring your soul the next –

Not a pretty sight, not that soul –

Having thrown down your pen, and picked it up,

(Poor abused pen, leaking on the carpet)

Only to draw flocks of pot-bellied dragons

Pursued by flaming fire engines;

Having made paper airplanes with bent noses

Which wobble sadly in the air, and, like the words

Scrawled on them, snivel, and fall to earth –

Having, I say, at last written

Something resembling a poem

If you take off your glasses and squint –

You crumple that too, and toss it away

To lie on the floor, forgotten

Till the house falls down, and it’s found in the ruins –

Enough, you say, and open the door

To the night; a cloud rolls across the moon;

Its white face regards you unblinking,

And by its light, your hands are turned to silver.