There’s a certain sort of poetry whose production I’d love to curb:
the sort that gets written at venues where the surroundings are truly superb.

At Annaghmakerrig in Monaghan they run all kinds of courses
for artists in need of a pick-me-up for their failing inner resources.

The landscape is stunning for miles around, with lakes and drumlins a-plenty:
it’s just the job for the journeyman whose tank is running on empty.

My friend took a party of teachers there for a session of in-service training.
The weather wasn’t so great that day; it was misty and cold and raining.

It was all going well when a man burst in — the manager, visibly stressed;
he was sorry to interrupt the course, but he had an urgent request:

‘Does anyone own a red Vauxhall? Would you move it, for Jesus’ sake?
I’ve a roomful of poets next door. It’s blocking their view of the lake.’