I am not a poet,
no artist, me -
I just …


I write for the guilty pleasure
it gives, for the
furtive delight of fingers sliding
over keys, the first spreading stain
on pristine white.

I write for the ultimate
birth of my babies.

I deliver them,
some in long and painful labour, others
in swift oblivion.

I pause, for a while, like any mother
to admire their beauty,
their clear, prodigious intelligence.
I marvel, smugly, at the miracle
I have produced.

It doesn’t last. When I glance
again each has grown
imperfect. This one needs discipline,
its many faults need stern schooling,
while that one needs tender encouragement
to shine.

Amongst the brood, Siamese twins,
together, halting and deformed -
crying out for separation. I wield
the knife and free them.

I herd them, chide them,
nurse them all, (Except for that
one dark changeling, glowering.
Surely it can’t be one of mine?
Tuck it away, quickly, out
of sight – what would the
neighbours say?).

And then, I let them go. Let them
struggle alone through approbation or
despite; Mother is engaged in a
new seduction, deflowering another
virgin page.


I write.