Some people think Creative Writing classes are a load of codswallop. Having worked with many writers' groups, I tend to disagree - even if I did write the following poem:
'And what is rhythm?' asks Janine, as Harry
(big fan of Irvine Welsh) drops into a doze.
Prunella is planning a life of Larry
Olivier, but has problems with her prose.
'Ye cannae beat Burns, if ye ask me,' states
wee Tam, unasked. 'I've no time for rhyme,' drawls
languid Dolores. 'Deep feeling negates
the need for form,' she purrs deep in her shawls.
I smile, agree, and introduce the nuts
and bolts of verse, of plot, of dialogue;
and Hadrian's haiku needs a few cuts,
and I don't know a good rhyme for hedgehog.
But, later, slipping homewards in the train
a harp sings soft, unfingered, in my brain.
*
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