Populating the most awkward and convoluted format of poem with the appropriate repetitions and rhymes seemed like the sort of activity to be undertaken either by utter devotees to poetry, or by someone who could do it if they liked but preferred to take the piss. I was the latter, and having achieved the formula I purposely spoiled it by adding an extra line afterwards. But still – it works.
Sitting here devoid of inspiration,
Filling empty forms with poetic strain,
Finding there’s no such thing as Intention,
I shatter critics’ sacred assumption
By achieving nothing as I remain
Sitting here devoid of inspiration.
It is my sour, discreet revelation,
In the know with those who share this domain,
Finding there’s no such thing as Intention:
Privy to secret information,
A deceit that in public we sustain –
Sitting here devoid of inspiration
I am become a kind of Freemason.
I realise it time and time again,
Finding there’s no such thing as Intention.
Yet as form-filling nears completion
I find coherence in spite of the strain,
Sitting here with unknown inspiration,
Finding that form-filling counts as Intention!
Well I’ll be damned.
© Ian Kennedy. Not to be reproduced without permission – email firstname.lastname@example.org and I’ll be happy to oblige!