A trainee poet, of no fixed ability, <br />seeking inspiration, quaffed the night away. <br />Awakening at dawn, semi naked on the lawn, <br />he perceived a figure emerging from the mist. <br />It was Saint Roger Mcgough, <br />wearing a Balinese skirt, Scottish Dirk <br />and oddly flourescent socks. <br /> <br />Trainee poet awestruck by this visionary <br />‘Pontiff Of Pun’ begged and pleaded <br />to be blessed with what he needed; awaywithwords. <br />He grovelled, he groaned, he moaned platitudes <br />by the dozen. Saint Roger, shell-shocked <br />from this cannonade of clichés, produced <br />his latest book, withdrew a concrete poem <br />and promptly dropped it on the trainees foot. <br /> <br />It was all very messy. <br /> <br />Syllables cymballed across the grass <br />crashing into phrases which fractured <br />and fractalled away. An entire sentence <br />ricocheted off the shed downing a passing <br />pigeon. Then, in a haze of imagery, <br />Saint Roger was gone. <br /> <br />Trainee poet was admitted to hospital. <br />His body having been immersed in verse <br />now sprouted sonnets, rondels and rhyme; <br />a condition which could only be alleviated <br />by severe editing. Couplets were carved, <br />from his spine, the spleen yielded an entire stanza, <br />whilst commas littered his lungs. <br /> <br />The trainee wrote no more; but often, when ginned, <br />he would mutter about the poetry he felt within.<br /><br />Stephen Beattie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/roger-mcgoughs-socks/