The Idea

It's National Poetry Day today! Of course, this makes absolutely no difference to me whatsoever as a poet - nobody has booked me for a gig this year, and as there's barely a day where I don't think about poetry or a poem I'm writing, a special occasion for the form does feel a bit like a Busman's Holiday.  

Still, it's a chance for people who wouldn't normally consider delving into poetry to spend a few moments considering its many merits, and given that it remains a very fringe art form there's nothing wrong with that.  If anything, I wish a slightly bigger deal was made of it, with more broadcasting outlets than Radio Four involved. Was there really no room for BBC4 to do something tonight, for example?  (It's the least we should expect.  Even a poetry programme way outside prime time would have been a start.)  

Annoyance with the BBC aside... whilst I could, if I wanted, allow the day to pass without a blog update, I'd probably end up feeling a bit left out.  So please find "The Idea" below.  This was a common feature of live performances about four or five years ago but has fallen out of the set for now - it's unpublished and there's no reason why it shouldn't be in the public domain.  Enjoy.

The Idea

It sleeps in the desk drawer,

but only for a year; you can’t

keep mediocrity down.

Fate has decreed your

clumsy hand will

chance upon it in the dust,

in the dead skin from the

wrought-out hand-wringing

sessions of blocked days.

It never seems like much at first,

but always has the air of “something”,

so you walk outside with it, and

watch as hungry for attention it

grabs the faces of passers-by,

pulls at their lips, seems to

force them to say

“What a fantastic idea!” and

“How did you come to it?” and

“Who’d have thought!” and you

smile, nod, accept praise

at this stage, pretend

you’d thought of it yesterday.

Word gets around.

This something is more than something.

Journalists are most excited.

Sponsors ring you on the phone.

Dictators quote you in speeches.

Before you know where you are,

London Underground have signs

reading “This station is

closed at X hour, for that is

when the man with the novel

idea walks past, and we

cannot cope with the

congestion of people

clamouring for his attention.”

Your photo in the paper

reveals a grin as false

as a school photo snap smile, a

protractor forced down

between your lips.

You have touched the hearts and

souls of many with a

dusty, half-formed reject of an

idea, and this is the

price you pay – to be

known for it, to

talk about it

until the day you die,

knowing it will surely

outlive you.