Oh, Muse, where art thou?

Courting two women simultaneously calls for great skill, for it is dangerous work. But I have no choice, because I cannot decide which I need more. One is named Erato, the muse of love-poetry; the second is Euterpe, the muse of lyric poetry and music.

Both have made eyes at many a man, whispered honeyed words into his ear and stirred him to powerful feats of creativity. Both ignore me, the *******.

I'm told they might visit in the night, creep into my bed and share my dreams, but each morning the notebook by the alarm clock has remained virgin white. Some say they arrive punctually at 9 o'clock each morning, after a hearty breakfast, and leave promptly at lunchtime. Or that they like to be wooed on bracing country walks at dawn. Others say they enjoy a drink and that the way to win their favour is to treat them to long sessions in the pub. Now that is certainly preferable to early morning walks, but whatever record of their words I find in my notebook after such interludes is usually rubbish, even when legible.

So I'll live without them. As Richard Widmark said of women in The Law and Jake Wade, 'They sure do slow a man down.'

Yes, I'm trying to write a poem, another poem. Don't ask me why. You can't sell poems. Hardly anyone will appreciate them. And in any case, when you think of all the great poets who have gone before, you know you're not going to be any good.

If I were to hazard an answer to that 'why?', I'd have to say that we all have an urge to create. To produce something uniquely ours. Making up a joke, preparing a meal, playing a tune on the guitar, writing a decent letter or a blog, producing a film or painting the Sistine Chapel.

So I want to write 150 sonnets. More than 150 would be arrogant.

Sonnets, because they are short and deal with just one idea. As a form they are simple, which of course doesn't mean easy. Because they have a structure and I like a framework within which to work. I don't like a lot of modern free verse. I get the impression that the writers think that a poem is a few random words higgedly-piggedly set out with lots of white paper around them and line breaks in odd places. Prose dressed up in borrowed clothes.

It might be interesting to log my thought processes as I compose this thing