My poems don’t understand me; they get jealous when I look at other poems in magazines. I tell my poems time is getting on and we’ve got to be better if we’re going to make this work. My poems blame me, saying it’s my job to provide the inspiration. Typical poem, sitting around wanting to make everyone else do all the work!
Recently I haven’t liked the way my poems have been talking to me, they can’t say what they mean – I’ve been thinking about taking my poems on a course. Maybe our relationship needs some professional feedback.
Sometimes people ask me if my poems are poems and I don’t know what to say.
I went to a Slam competition with my poems last night, me and my poems kissed in front of everyone and we got a very low score.
We argued on the way home, I told my poems, “sentimentality is dead” but my poems disagreed and blamed me for showing off.
My poems said they felt used. My poems said it’s not about them being heard it’s about me being seen. I disagreed. I told my poems maybe they should rhyme more; my poems then accused me of cheating on them with music. I told my poems I’d never leave them for music but deep down I knew that wasn’t true.
Maybe I’m too young for poems; I should be out with the rest of the twenty-something year olds. I should be in the clubs and the trendy Shoreditch bars. I mean, I live in Hackney and its hip now. I should be celebrating my youth with pretty girls in fake fur coats, not needy poems on crumpled papers.
I’ve tried to leave my poems in the past but they always comes back when I try to do something else.
My poems have this way of showing up with something new about them, something I want to get back into.
“Get a pen!” my poems demand, “I’m furious! We need to write!”
Raymond Antrobus is a poet, workshop leader, travel writer, and host/founder of the Chill Pill poetry nights. Find out more at http://raymondantrobus.com/