that you’re lacking divine inspiration
and you’re struggling to bring to mind
a topic of the worthy kind,
and you wonder what occurrence might
inspire you to start to write.
You may proclaim in a poncey way
‘O whither Muse shall I go today?’
There’s nothing in the daily news –
no burning topic you could use
to weigh up every view and then
dispense your worldly acumen.
Whatever could you do or say
to make this problem go away? –
wander o’er the ancient hills
acclaiming frigging daffodils
or hunt that hurried, scribbled note
of a half-remembered anecdote.
Or expand on the lady from Ealing
who had a peculiar feeling!
But you can’t even do
a quick Haiku.
Perhaps a syndrome might explain
the tumbleweed inside your brain.
Perhaps some childhood deprivation
caused this lack of stimulation.
A lack of zinc? or too much salt?
It might be someone else’s fault.
You idly entertain yourself
with a smiley face on a dusty shelf,
and wonder should you go outdoors
avoiding certain pressing chores
but will the chill autumnal day
furnish something fresh to say
or might a bright idea call
whilst staring at the kitchen wall?
For sometimes mellow, empty days
encourage you to navel gaze.
Then being such an idle scruff,
you root around for navel fluff
and wonder, if you saved enough -
how big a cushion could you stuff?
The technicalities you now find
invade your jaded, barren mind.
And that is all, suffice to say,
there’s nothing going on today.