A dream in which the women were like Venus
made me think of art and you. You’re a
botticelli-baby; if I dipped a sheet of paper
into your mind, it would come out marbled
in oils and watercolour and with bits
of moulded clay on the edges. Equally,
you sculpt with words, and each statue
smiles ironically at its creator.
Headline, in 2 inch banner.
And underneath, the name, modest,
simple, but with a quietly triumphant
“I told you I’d make it”
hidden within for those who know.
When it happens, don’t let it
go to your head. And be careful,
Too Trusting Trace: don’t let anyone
take you for a ride.
When I think journalist,
the word is smartly dressed in jargon,
shod in stereotype. Somehow,
you don’t fit the hard-hitting,
heartless frame, but you’ll charm them silly
and then shock them
by having brains just when
they thought they were safe.
Try not to hand in your drafts
covered too often in intricate blue-pen
masterpieces of shape. It’s the words
they’re looking for, and the insight
in some of your doodles
can be harrowing.
They’re looking for surface style.