It reminds me of the year I spent at University in the college darts team. I got 'dartitis', the 'Yips', when you can't let go. I was in good company, I think Eric Bristow got it, too. All one could do in the end was throw the bloody thing anyway and just stop worrying about it. Maybe it's the same with poems. It might not be any good but let's see what happens.
Many years ago, I showed a new poem to a friend and they clearly didn't think it was up to standard and so, as kindly as they could, said it was better to be writing any poem than not write one at all. I'm not sure I entirely agree with that but, if that's the best that can be said, I should have been grateful.
So I perhaps shouldn't be putting shoddy goods in front of my faithful readers. On the other hand, it shows I'm still trying and sometimes one might not be convinced about a piece and somebody else can convince you. And maybe it won't look quite as facile when I look back at it later.
Private Dancer was one of the ideas I had for the elusive novel. It went to two chapters before being abandoned. My big effort this time last year was the office comedy, Midtagspause, but comedy fails when it can't do any better than real life and thus what chance did I ever have.
I would much prefer to be a novelist than a poet but that is only like wishing I could have been good at snooker when I was only ever any good at pool.
I'm not exactly selling it, am I.
Private Dancer
Though this might be the last chapter
in a novel never written
as she looks down through lace curtains
at the quiet street below, rain
is still not falling (though by now
it had been forecast) like in books
it almost certainly would be.
There’s nobody about except
the man who walks his dog from pub
to betting shop and back early
each afternoon. It’s rare for her
to notice the framed photographs
around her of the shows she once
was part of in provincial rep
in things like Thoroughly
Modern
Millie, Kiss Me Kate or
Showboat
with someone who said they
had danced
with Fred Astaire. And some believed
it. But the devil may care now.
What’s really the difference between
a story that is true and one
that isn’t. It’s time for sherry,
nearly, and that is near enough
and, although it’s cheap, it’s Spanish,
the day has no horizon yet,
she’s no longer a character,
no longer has to act or dance.
