When our 20 week ‘Write a Novel’ course finished a few years ago, eight of us from the course set up a writing group. We arranged to meet up in December (me hosting) with the intention of reading our festive flash-fiction pieces.
Having spent the previous few weeks buried in my novel, the disappointing results of my extremely reluctant Christmas creativity added up to nothing more than multiple crossed out lines. In frustration, an impromptu cake baking session somehow triggered the inspiration for the poem below (and, might I add, a rather delicious carrot cake!): and my poem is not without its fair share of fairy dust . . .
I sweated, slaved and drew a blank
from my dried up creative tank.
I couldn’t host without a few
completed lines to read to you.
I thought of fairies, waving wands,
imagined swans on frozen ponds.
I dreamt of Santa with his sleigh,
but words would still not slide my way.
The Christmas lights, they twinkled bright,
but this was really not my night;
no matter how I racked my brain,
creative flow had gone again.
I wrote to Santa, begged him, “Please!”
“To oil my brain, defrost its freeze.”
But of the presents that he brought,
not one released creative thought.
So in despair, I baked instead,
in hope that it would clear my head,
and sure enough a shift occurred –
into my mind: word after word.
Before I’d time to write them down,
the oven beeped, the cake was brown.
I rubbed my eyes, my mouth agape;
a little gasp made its escape.
Coz on the top a Santa sat.
He held a scroll upon his lap.
“You only had to ask my dear,
for all that’s in the way is fear.”
“So in this scroll I give you trust
and self-belief, which is a must.
Please use this gift, do not delay.
Go write a novel, pen a play.
Pull close the mantel of your faith:
your heart’s desire is to create.”
So to the sound of ringing bells,
the stars from wands of little elves,
my mind is whirring once again;
the rust eroded from my brain.
I wave farewell to Santa’s sleigh
as I awake on Christmas Day
. . . who knows what happened on that night,
coz all I want to do is write . . .
© Nicky Clifford, 2015