trace (3/August/18)

what will happen to all these words, these words that sometimes I can’t even be bothered to press the key hard enough to bring a letter into existence or hold the pen long enough to end one and begin another?… few write something that last beyond the pages they are scribbled on… few have a song, poem, book that years, decades, even centuries later still has a life, is remembered, repeated, reiterated, reinforced through sharing, passed on, passed down, passed around… most will just fade away into somewhere less comfortable than obscurity… do words exist when there’s no one to read them?… words here but not here having been released into the wilds of anonymity never to be seen, heard of, quoted, read despite time spent in birthing, nurturing them… is it enough that they’ve been written at all despite not knowing as to what end, or do they need assurance, an audience, listeners patronising its very metre and form, a some one to become more someones and more someones… is it enough to be conjured into existence only to leave not a trace?……

© 2018 robert greig

dear dairy… (14/July/18)

dear diary,

I sometimes misspell you, though not on purpose and hope you can forgive my occasional misdemeanour, and you sometimes come out as dairy which I’m sure you’ll understand can lead to all manner of complications… luckily I’ve not mistaken you, yet at least, for diarrhoea, a word itself a nightmare to spell correctly at the best of times without second guessing oneself, not to mention there being two accepted (though not acceptable) versions, the other dropping the ‘o’ though you’ll be pleased to know I don’t approve of that seeing it as a bit flippant to do so… and I couldn’t  imagine confiding in my diarrhoea in quite the same way as I would a diary, or even a dairy which would not only be weird but also pointless as its sole advice to any confessions would always be the same, not to cry over spilled milk.

… and as for occasional, there’s another slippery one, one ‘c’ two of ‘s’, one ‘s’, two of ‘c’…… anyway, I won’t bother your pulpiness with this one, thanks for listening and also for not making any crass jokes about pasteurising……

yours sincerely,
me.

© 2018 robert greig

no one read (28/June/18)

I wrote a poem today
that no one will read

not even me
it’s not finished, will probably likely never be

so why did I write it?

good question,
and one for which I have no answer one way
or the other
needless to say it began with all the best intentions, an almost-plan, an itch of direction, some words even rhymed while others scanned, syllables slotted in place until soon before long clarity turned from translucence and into resigned opaque…

I have to confess to parallel lines

one atop
the other,

like so…

which is all good and well but it was maybe a little too late as it managed to dodge and evade all attempts to impose any pattern or logic, beginning or end, reason or even I’ll say it again, any rhyme, an unruly child, a duck that won’t quack, a sneeze that won’t sneeze, but then again…

no one will ever read it anyway so why should I care, what’s all the fuss all about…?

I could lose it among an equally unruly, unquackable, unsneezable pile of unfinished scribblings growing accusingly ever-taller, but then again….

years and years later I might stumble across it’s muttering and grumbling between some dog-eared paper of anonymous ilk then what would I do, could I in all conscience consign it to oblivion….?

I wrote a poem today
that no one will read,
clearly this wasn’t it……..

© 2018 robert greig