How my poems come to me

On 17 January, I received the following comment/question in response to my limerick “There was a young lady called Lou”:
“Do these like, just pop into your mind; or do you have a scrapbook full of them?” (

I replied as follows:

“Thank you for your comment. I thought this one up while eating boiled egg on toast and drinking Earl Grey tea this morning! Many of my poems come to me while walking my dog. Being blind I don’t carry a notebook. I have never learned to write by hand. I do, however touch type and write my poems using a standard Windows laptop equipped with Job Access with Speech or JAWS (software which converts text into speech and braille relaying the screen’s contents to me). I write my poems either at home or in my lunch hour in the office”, (

In light of the above exchange, I thought it would be helpful for me to expand on how my poems come to me.

As I said in response to Daria’s question, “There was a young Lady called Lou” popped into my mind as I was enjoying egg on toast with a piping hot cup of Earl Grey, while other poems come to me as I walk my guide dog Trigger. It is frequently remarked that exercise is good for both the mental and the physical self. I would certainly endorse this view as a brisk walk often leads to the composition of a poem. I can not, however swear that all poems appear on paper exactly as they originally churned around my mind. My memory is good but far from being photographic in nature.

At other times I sit in front of my laptop pleading with my muse to take pity on me and whisper words of inspiration:

She is a fickle mistress who oft times does tease
And, on occasions doth please
The poet in search of inspiration
With which to wow the nation.
To my consternation
She does come and go
But, I know
‘Twas always so
And ‘twill remain
Until my life drains away
Or I, in senility, languish one day.



11 thoughts on “How my poems come to me

    1. drewdog2060drewdog2060 Post author

      Thanks Lucy. Poems also come to me while in bed, (the problem is, come the morning I cant remember them or have a half-formed recollection of a poem, rather like one might struggle to recapture the essence of a dream.


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