Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2010

To You

by Charles Clive

I sit in my garret, I twiddle a thumb;
I drain the last dregs of my tea.
I gaze through the window, over the hill
as far as the eye can see;
but no inspiration will come from the Muse
to help with a poem – from me.
My failure’s emphatic, my failure’s complete,
as plain as a failure can be.
With trawls through the papers, internet too,
I’ve even considered a fee;
if only some person will lend me a hand
and help with a poem – from me.
And you write so
well, so naturally too,
a style both flowing and free;
Oh how I envy your neat turn of phrase,
which highlights your true pedigree.
But me?  I just sit here, yearning to write
a little love poem – from me.

Added: 12.04.2010