These words should be my servants,

Yet they rise up in rebellion, a torment.

I try to master them, but they are swift

And cunning too. I am outnumbered,

So grab a few lacklustre stragglers

Thinking to intimidate, to lick them into order on the page.

But can I find the rhyme, or fill the metre

With stress or aphony ? At other times

The words I seek seem near,

And off I set in confident pursuit.

Through dictionaries and thesauri I give hunt

And come so very close - or so I think. But no,

It’s just another ambush. And suddenly

My clean white page is awash, a soggy mass

Of broiling syllables, an overripe culture

Of ill-mannered thoughts. I’m sorry but

The masterpiece I promised has escaped again

And mocks me from another poet’s page. I am cheated,

Cuckolded. My mistress muse

Has spent her all elsewhere.

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