The poet was having a bad day, and a worse night. He couldn’t find a word, an image, a rhyme or no rhyme to inspire him anywhere. There was no poetry left. He searched deep in his mind, and into his heart, and his soul.
Nothing.
He thought perhaps some haiku might help. Couldn’t get seventeen syllables to come together at all.
He needed a walk. It might be the middle of the night in the middle of winter, but never mind. The poet threw on a coat, pulled on fleece-lined shoes, wrapped a scarf tightly about his neck, and stepped out the front door. No lights on at the neighbours. Perchance to dream … He halted, staring at the drawn curtains across the road. Maybe poems could be found in his neighbours’ dreams.
He looked both ways along the moonlit road where the occasional street light threw deeper shadows to cast gardens into darkness. All silent, still. No dog barked, no cats squabbled.
The poet walked briskly, his purpose clear, over the road, across the footpath, and up the concrete driveway of Tom and Andrea’s house. Bending now, he crept along the wall to crouch below the front windows, imagining the couple wrapped in their duvets, snuggled against each other in their warm bed. Did either one – or both – snore? He listened, not for snores or even the gentle snuffles of deep sleep, but for dreams. Dreams with poetry captured within them.
How long the poet crouched there he didn’t know. He tightened his coat around him, gently stamped his feet to drive away the cold, and wrapped his numb fingers in the ends of his scarf. At last he became aware of the night’s quiet easing into the rowdiness of day.
A bird called. And another. Four houses down, a car engine revved, headlights lit the road and a car pulled out, turned left and drove on by, catching at the edge of the poet’s crouching form. A light glowed in an upstairs room across the way. The poet rose, stretched, and walked slowly, thoughtfully, back the way he had come, towards his home. As he went, he searched his mind for inspiration stolen from his sleeping neighbours …
The porch light behind him blinked on. A door opened and Tom peered out, clutching his dressing gown to his chest. He spied the poet, who waved.
‘Oh, just you,’ Tom said. ‘Heard something, wondered …’
‘Sorry to wake you.’ The poet lifted the corners of his mouth while his eyes probed Tom’s face, searching for that elusive inspiration.
‘No problem.’ Tom ran a hand through his mussed hair. ‘Nearly time to get up, and anyway, I was having the weirdest dream.’ He puffed out a breath. ‘A nightmare, really. Some geezer in a scarf standing over me telling me to write a hi coo or else.’ He laughed. ‘No idea what a damn hi coo even is.’
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THE POET WAS HAVING A BAD DAY
He was supposed to be composing a new series of poems for his forthcoming book, but the poet was having a bad day.
For poet laureate Trevor Haines, today was the day when months of planning would all come together.
When, inspired, he would sit down and complete the two poems needed to wrap up his latest title “Poems for All Seasons”.
Instead, from the moment he woke, the day began dreadfully.
Firstly, there was the phone call from his sister saying their mother had been rushed to hospital with suspected kidney stones leading to a painful and potentially deadly infection.
Next, as he was about to take a shower, the bathroom plumbing burst flooding his entire flat before he was able to reach the main tap near the front fence of the unit complex and turn it off.
Finally, his publisher called and said there had been an industry strike that looked like lasting several weeks throwing all their publishing deadlines into turmoil.
Trevor surveyed his waterlogged flat with dismay as he tried sopping up the mess with as many towels as he could muster. The plumber had said he couldn’t make it before tomorrow and meantime he would just have to cope as best he could.
Fortunately, his work was stored on shelves clear of the rivulets now running through every room – and he had managed to disconnect his computer and other electrical appliances before the gushing water had a chance to damage them.
Trevor ruefully speculated that “Poems for All Seasons” perhaps should be retitled “How to Deal with a Disaster-Prone Life”.
For this was not the first time that he had encountered such mishaps.
Each time he was to release a new volume of poems, a new thorn would present itself.
Last year, Trevor had been on his way to the publisher, latest manuscript locked securely in his briefcase, when a truck had side swiped his car, rendering it a total write off.
Luckily, he was able to rescue the manuscript and escape from the driver’s seat before the vehicle plunged down an embankment into the ravine below.
Restitution took months, the insurance company insisting that the accident had somehow been Trevor’s fault and not wanting to pay him the agreed value.
Still carless, Trevor found it difficult at times to meet deadlines – given that he now had to rely on infrequent public transport to attend publisher meetings.
However, there was light at the end of the tunnel. The insurance company had finally consented to pay up, but not before Trevor had been forced to seek intervention from the financial ombudsman on his behalf.
Life shouldn’t have to be this difficult, he thought, as he continued mopping up the sodden mess that were now his carpets.
Another insurance claim, something he was dreading given his previous experience. They’ll probably think I left the water running on purpose.
Trevor sighed. Not only was he totally lacking inspiration for the final two poems to complete the new book, he couldn’t even go and see his mother in hospital.
A recent sink hole on the one road from his unit leading to the main highway had completely cut off all access to the premises.
So, not only was the plumber going to find it difficult to reach his property the next day, the buses couldn’t run and his flat was virtually unliveable until the floor coverings were replaced.
Ah, well, he thought, at least the industry strike gave him time to come up with some new poems – maybe even a whole new chapter on disaster sonnets.
Very funny. I’m not sure crouching below your neighbour’s window is going to give you inspiration to write Japanese poetry though. However, might get you arrested. Wouldn’t be surprised 😂😂
Ha! Yes…