IF I WERE LORELEI

No, Mr Prufrock, I won’t sing for you unless you hire me professionally, and my fees are high. Believe me, you couldn’t afford me.

You’re lucky.

Only if I decide I want you, will I the cool northern Carmen decide to sing to you. Then watch out.

(I’ve played that role on stage, of course, but critics weren’t convinced. Not enough fire, they said.)

I don’t need fire.

I’m the ice queen, I’m the bitch goddess; rather I light the fires in you.

Slim, tall, straight-backed with straight black hair, I could be a Goth, picture me in a black dress and make-up, but I prefer to be sheathed in scarlet for jazz or torch songs in smoky rooms.

My profession is my talent, but my genius is your destruction.

I’m a succubus, I’ll suck your soul when I sing my other repertoire from Hell-crimson lips.

And in the River Rhine of your desire

I’ll sit on my rock and entice you.

That rock from which I’ll watch you crash and drown.

One of the most enduringly fascinating puzzles in poetry is where the ideas for writing it come from and, more fascinating, how those ideas are processed and transformed into the complete poem. The answer to the first question can be as simple as ‘a thought popped into the mind’ or ‘somebody set an exercise’. The answer to the second is a combination of the right idea on the right day, the poet’s knowledge and life experiences that dictate thought patterns, the immediacy of the poet’s mood at the time of writing, the urge to use this or that form and shape, and the impulses of imagination. That’s just for starters. Throw into the mix the million random thoughts and influences that may be considered or may be ignored, and it’s not surprising that we can continue to create original pieces of writing, despite the centuries and the hordes that have