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Writing a poem is a bit like playing
In a football match, I’ll explain what I’m saying.
Before the first half the words emerge
From the tunnel, but at once there is a scourge.
There is no order, no reason, no sense.
I then shout at them, ‘You need to Commence
Playing like a team not individual words!’
They ignore me as if none of them heard.
They carry on, pretty much the same
And that is how they end the first half of the game.
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Half Time Team Talk:
‘What was that? I thought I was watching an un-ordered Alphabet. You were all over the place, there was no meter, form, verses… My Grandmothers writing can do better…it was a joke… A mis-Spelt Joke… Now I want you all to get out there and act like a poem… Get out.’
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They come out on the pitch with a new lease of life
There’s commitment and order as sharp as a knife.
The Commentator declares, ‘Doesn’t it seem
That the words we now see are like a new team?
There’s meter and form and reason and rhyme,
I wonder what the poet said to them at half time?’
He’s right they sort into stanzas and lines.
The formation is working everything’s fine,
Until eventually a poem is complete
And you sit back content that the words can’t be beat.