Last-Minute Lucy...(or) This is What Happens...

Today I have to submit the material I'll be reading at a coffee house next week. I waited, and waited, and waited to prepare - figuring at the very least I could go back to older things if I didn't have the chance to write new ones. Well, I went back, and, besides a little trip down memory lane, I found squat. Zip, zero, zilch,nada, nein... (and I didn't find anything either). So now I have to write something! And I'm feeling a little like Ed Norton in 25th Hour right before he does that awesome monologue in the men's room mirror. I refuse to call the coordinator and say, "I know I said I wanted to participate, but I was temporarily insane. I've come to my senses now, so thank you but nevermind. Okay, bye!" The truth is I want to do it; another truth is I'm a little disturbed that so much of what I've written is no longer relevant to me now, but that's another post for another day - that I'll probably put off writing. Finally, I thought to myself, "Okay, you want to do well, but this isn't life or death. And we both know that the art of speaking poetry is very much in the presentation. So write what's true to you right now." Okay, so I wasn't that eloquent, but looking back I gather that's what my subconscious must have been saying to me just before I was able to write something down. Here's what I came up with:

“Poems Never Come”

Poems never come when you want them.
Like when you happen to wake up early
on a Saturday morning, while the world is quiet
and your obligations are still sleeping.
They don’t show up when you try to impress
that cute guy, telling him, “Yes. I’m a poet.”
and he says, “Really? Recite something.”
In fact, after your first love and adolescent angst,
some poems don’t come around for ages.
And they definitely don’t show up when you have
a keyboard within reach or pen and paper in hand—
ready for them—
waiting and knowing
today is the day I will be brilliant.
No.

Poems arrive at the pinnacle of inopportunity—
Like when you’re going to your car or bus stop
with two hands full of groceries and no scribe in sight.
They show up while you’re walking the dog,
who you can tell the poem to, but
(let’s face it) he won’t repeat it to you
when you get home, so you can write it down.
They pop up in the middle of a lecture you can’t leave,
or a one-sided conversation you can’t get out of,
so you’ve resorted to entertaining yourself.
Poems play peek-a-boo,
flashing the last line,
giving you a glimpse of a theme,
then when you sit down to put it all together…
gone – back into hiding.
The worst time is when Poems show up in your sleep,
all vibrant and on parade.
And if a picture is worth a thousand words,
then every time we wake from dreaming,
gone is another book no one will ever get to read.

God’s speed, Poems, as you fly from me…
And I don’t know when you’ll return,
but I will wait for you forever.
****

“Five Minutes”

I’ve got five minutes to write this poem.
Can’t handwrite it – my penmanship is awful.
Can’t type it – I’ll need four and a half minutes
just to find the home row keys.
Please, Something, come. Muse, if you’re listening
I could really use some help right now.
Give me the words to say and show me how
to arrange them in a way that will still make sense
when I reread it the second time around.
What’s it called? Timeless and universal,
but I’m on the clock so I’ll settle for relevant
and slightly witty. No time to be picky – beggars
can’t be choosers.
I’ve got five minutes to write this poem,
and all the ideas in my mind are too common or too private,
too politically incorrect (though that poem would be a riot),
too simple, too complex, too much about myself,
too soft, too loud, too much like a poem
I’ve heard somewhere else.
What’s the delay?
How can someone who’s always talking really have nothing to say?
Maybe that’s just it? With spoken words, they’re said; they’re heard;
they float up through the world and I’m done with it.
But it’s a lot easier to change my mind than change my print.
So how can I get it done, when by the time I’ve told my truth
I’ve discovered another one?
I’ve got five minutes to write this poem.
And if it doesn’t come quick,
I may have to cut the open mic and call in sick.
The symptoms?
My nouns are weighted down; my verbs keep running;
my prepositions are flaring up, and I’m seeing adjectives everywhere I look—
not to mention I’ve got commas coming out all over the place.
It’s too late now to save face
because I had five minutes to write this poem,
And I’ve got nothing.

They're not mind-shattering or life-altering pieces. Hell, they may not even be all that thought-provoking, but they entertain me. And I hope they entertain you too.

"...And I have this litany of things they can do. And the first one, of course, is to write -- every day, no excuses. It's so easy to make excuses. Even professional writers have days when they'd rather clean the toilet than do the writing."
- Octavia Butler