Work in Progress

Anyone who knows anything about poetry, knows, that a poem is never finished. And here is a case in point.

When I first published In Praise of the "Off" Switch, I had reservations. The metaphors were mixed, with the words "sizzling" and "waves" having more to do with electronics or microwaves, than the idea of drowning from a lack of inspiration. And the "antics of the birds" seemed artificial, and out of place. (Unless of course the "Off" switch was in the garden or I had caged birds in the house), something that the reader could speculate about. Ideas that didn't sit with the later metaphor of the fisherman, committed, laboriously searching for bait. What I knew I wanted, and knew I hadn't achieved, was to sustain the theme: In Praise of the "Off" Switch against the backdrop of the natural elements, and the refusal to accept ones fate, (however inadequate one might feel), as inevitable. So while, in the meantime, a lot has been going on in my life, this unease has been ticking over in my head.

So here are two versions of the same poem: the new and the original. And whose to say, as I look after our summer students and do all the other things that I need to do, that there won't be a third. You might like to comment, or suggest your own alternative. And if nothing else, this is a concession to the fact that I don't keep a record of the process of composition.

[Yesterday while returning from a visit to Barnsdale Gardens, 7th of July, it crossed my mind that this poem woulod be better without the title, that takes from the element of surprise at the end. So in future it will be known by the first line. Proof again, if it were needed, that a poem is never finished.]

   It's time to write a sonnet in your praise:
(I've fought against the current now for days),
And when my head is flound'ring in the waves
I loose control, and grasp at what I crave.
   And in that moment - I am lost for words,
Oblivious to the flight-paths of the birds,
For I am breathless: speechless at my craft;
A poet without words is simply daft.
   But poets do not give themselves to death,
No matter how they grieve or are bereft.
Knee deep in silt, and filt'ring like a sieve
They find the limpets - words by which they live.
      "My friend! Marconi! You are not to blame,
      That I should reach for the, "Off" switch, again."

© Cormac McCloskey
29th  June 2010
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In Praise of the "Off" Switch

   It's time to write a sonnet in your praise:
(I've grappled with the subject now for days),
For when my head is sizzling in the waves
I loose control, and grasp at what I crave.
   And in that silence - I am lost for words,
Oblivious to the antics of the birds,
For I stand neutered: speechless at my craft;
A poet without words is simply daft.
   But poets do not give themselves to death,
No matter how they grieve or are bereft.
Knee deep in silt, and filt'ring like a sieve
They find the limpets - words by which they live.
      "My friend! Marconi! You are not to blame,
      That I should reach for the, "Off" switch, again."

© Cormac McCloskey

2nd-3rd June 2010