Welcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundredth poem in this series. This week’s piece is by multi-genre author guest blogger, interviewee and spotlightee Marion Grace Woolley.
Scribbling Like A Teen
Fervent and frustrated
Pen slipping through my sweaty palm
First efforts all cremated
I bite my lip and mop my brow
I’ve lost my own campaign
There’s just no way of putting it
I frown and start again
My rhymes are cheap and childish
My haikus half as high
My sonnets non-existent
Limericks make me cry
All this verse and reason
Hides the naked truth
I fit words into order
Like pulling out a tooth
I try too hard, I squish them in
Make sure each one has an end-ing
Couplets, pairs, and courting verbs
Nouns, full stops, and drunken slurs
Each dot dot dot, each dash dash dash
Each exclamation, quote and hash
Each ampersand and glottal stop
Each semi-colon; there or not
My thoughts run dry, my tongue is tied
I hide the things I feel inside
Behind a wall of Gothic Script
Arial Wide and Arabic (Traditional)
I bash the keyboard left and right
Change pace at every stanza
Scream my rage into the screen
Slave to (awkward) pentameter
My gifts have all abandoned me
My talents all took flight
Once my fingers drew the sun
Now they beckon night.
Every time I try to pen
The thing I need to say
It withers on the papyrus
Ink muddies up like clay
Inside I feel those wistful winds
That blew through Byron’s mane
Shelley’s tender sentiment
Blake flowing through my brain
A poet I shall never be
But, please, I beg you, pity me
For talents, of them, I have few
To tell the things I wish you knew
Until such time my odes take flight
I’ll burn the oil both day and night
I’ll sweat it out
I’ll scream, I’ll shout
I’ll write until I’m written out.
I asked Marion what prompted this piece and she said…
This truly is a poem written out of frustration. I sat down to pen a sentimental sonnet but everything that came out just sounded forced. By nature, I enjoy jaunty rhyming poems, but I was trying to write something heartfelt and meaningful. My natural style and what I wanted to say were at odds with one another. In the end, I purged myself by writing about the problem. I fear it’s one most poets know only too well.
And us prose writers. Thank you, Marion.
Marion Grace Woolley studied at the British Record Industry Trust (BRIT) School of Performing Arts, Croydon. After obtaining an MA in Language & Communication Research from the University of Cardiff, she declared that she’d had enough of academia and decided to run away to Africa.
Balancing her creative impulses with a career in International Development, she worked and travelled across Africa, Australia, Armenia, and a few other places beginning with ‘A’. In 2009, Marion helped to oversee the publication of the first Dictionary of Amarenga y’Ikinyarwanda (Rwandan Sign Language), a project of which she was immensely proud to have been a part.
The same year, Marion was shortlisted for the Luke Bitmead Bursary for New Writers. She is the author of three novels and an associate member of the Society of Authors.
She now lives in Gloucester, although the travelling bug hasn’t gone away.
You can find out more about Marion and her writing from:
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