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||Edwin Drood's Column
||4 February 2014
|Hugh Featherstone faces another case of late night hunger.|
Here I am; the kitchen, set to meet
the crisp, the sour, the savoury and the sweet
doing myself a flavour once again
and all because I have renounced the pen
It's late night and my strings of processed words
dance close to dawn, the hunter's dark corona
and the day's enchanted rim are one
as I tap my coded morsels, not upon
the battered and romantic Remington
nor nibbled at with lacquer pens, nor cheaply
scribbled with that tube of plastic chic
the Count's ubiquitous offering, the Bic
but on this cloned-up IBM.
it's not poetic, but it's practical
and surely it can't really matter much
if my pen's electronic, if I lack
the smudge, the blot, the scratch, the human touch
What's more, it rather helps me to explain
just why I'm in the kitchen once again
a meaningful relation with a pen
would spare me from this nightly urge to gnaw
I'd chew my cap instead of munching late
this isn't hunger, I just sublimate
what I can't drink from deep and inky wells
that served for other Longfellows, I eat
So while the cooler medium of the screen
uncaring, leads its own life in between
my lines, I sneak away beyond its eye
to feed my sulky muse a slice of rye
munching my heart out as I type for you
within the morning's waking nectar, see
how hunger runs ahead, bare feet in dew
its salt tongue seeks and finds a chunk of cheese
I'm never alone with my nocturnal thoughts
but take a sandwich too on nights like these
Though Sunday bards may have a bash
at fame in Woman's Own or greetings cards
the fact remains, this is my sole reward
a sandwich ... no one does this stuff for cash!
From Bird under water, a selection of poems by Hugh Featherstone
© Hugh Featherstone
Another poem from this selection will appear next time the Drood's away.
The Bird under water homepage includes a foreword by Hugh Featherstone
and a linked list of the poems as they appear.
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