Once a month I sidle up to a poet, much like The Salesman sidles up to Ernie, and whisper the question, “Why do you write poetry?”.
Inspiration. Elevation. Listening to other people’s lines:
Thunderbolts on leather strops
As for me, I’m watercolour
We have a country of words.
Tribes on the march, planets in motion
Into a blue-mauve evening. An old black Gibbon
in the blue-lit corridors, then paces
transmitting recordings of their most secret desires
and constructed a voting booth out of old egg cartons.
Duzzzzzzzzzzzzzen. Givvvv. A. F-uck!
How to murder the god in yourself
Collecting words, they sweat under nylon-wigs
He paints the house I write a poem
The liquid mornings bend
so we lie in bed like a mess
The moon spills her mettle through the pines
The asphalt is flecked
landing on her breasts like snow in a Meg Ryan movie
Half buried timbers chained corduroy
wallpaper wilts at the seams
their glint is too shallow, like a dye
smooth skin for silk and shudder
A ghostly Ferris wheel frozen in space
Something in me
can’t believe my luck
From some of my favourites:
Adam Ford, Maya Angelou, Anne Sexton, Nazim Hikmet, Czeslaw Milosz, Fay Zwicky, Judith Beveridge, David Prater, Sean M Whelan, .o., Alison Croggon, Robert Adamson, Jeltje, Fiona Wright, Shane Koyczan, Michelle Cahill, Ian McBryde, Emilie Zoey Baker, Les Murray, Nathan Curnow, Adrienne Rich, berni m janssen, Stephen Edgar, Dorothy Porter.
Adam Ford was co-editor of Going Down Swinging issues #18–#22 and is author of poetry collections The Third Fruit is a Bird, Not Quite the Man for the Job, the novel Man Bites Dog and Heroes and Civilians (short stories).