Anyway ...
As far as I can work out, Dylan Thomas only wrote seven poems in the last eight years of his life. That must have been pretty painful for him. I suppose he had other commitments to do the sort of writing (and readings) that would bring money in, I don't know.
Anyway ...
It makes me feel better about my nine, only nine, poems since I started writing poetry again this April.
However, I'm going to be very creative between now and Christmas. I'd like to get to twenty poems if I can.
Oh! Er ... this is a finance blog, and I won't be writing about poetry no more after today.
And you can hold me to that, dear reader(s). I'm serious.
[Ha, ha, ha! Voice? 'Yes, ha!' Thank you.]
It might actually be a mistake, you know, telling everyone what you're doing, or ... it might be useful, I don't know.
Anyway, kook(s) ...
This is my private diary, and you shouldn't even be reading it. How would YOU(!) like it, if I were to creep around in your bedroom while you were at work, trying to find where you've hidden it? I haven't hidden it, of course, my diary, but ... it's the same thing, man. Ain't it? Yes.
Never mind.
One day, soon, I'll be living in the land of the Owlman. I won't be writing this blog, or songs, and I will be able to put all of my energy into writing poetry. For the rest of my life. Yes. That's what my astrologer wants. It's what the cosmos wants. And it's what Billy wants. So be it! And it's what I want now.
And I've been thinking about Yeats, yes, Billy. Why does he want it? Well, let me quote from this poem of his, High Talk -
Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye.
What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high,
And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher,
Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire.
You see? I'm the man for the job. With a few sprinkles, obviously. If you know what I mean.
Laters.
