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Ant Smith
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The Maven

Friday 1st April 2011 4:09pm

Last night I stumbled upon an online poetry collective who have decided to each write a poem a day everyday throughout April.

The thunderous dunderheads, my very first thought.

Why would they do that? Sure, to be a writer you have to write. And I suppose practice makes perfect. And there must be all kinds of other easy idioms to make them feel terribly proud, nay, worthy.

But writing doesn't mean to mechanically churn out string upon string of semi-connect words and thoughts dredged up from some passing fancy. Oh, it's spring! I can well imagine some of the dross that dredges up.

I am truly sick of beautiful words.

curmudgeon, 2011

The best ideas are public property. They come to you as a consequence of living through a life. However smart, trained, poetical, you may be the thoughts rattling around in your own little head don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.

Well, perhaps that's harsh. But because subconscious processing is not something that runs to the timelines of the physical body it is inescapable that the majority of works 'composed' under such a regime will be wholly self-imagined. The arrogance of it. The thunderous dunderheads.

Of course, it isn't so much arrogance as commerce. The seeking of a cheap headline. The opportunity to embalm those dead words in to a commodity, a pamphlet. Something for the CV.

So here's mine for day one. I do not know as yet if there will be one for day two. But possibly. I do intend on taking a long tube journey tomorrow...

Two garden chairs covered in snow

The Maven

Why not write a daily poem-a-day?

Suddenly words are so throw away.

Carve out space where you can sit and wait

For a clue to what you want to say

The spirit of this thing's so profound

Ideas are won more than they're found

Infernos rage from the slightest spark

The poet's abyss is never far.

When words move in abstract sullen moods

They likely proselytise for to you

Why not write a daily poem-a-day?

Perhaps because I ain't so vain

You must be some kind of great maven

To promise daily poetic ravings

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