SUNDAY, 25 AUGUST 2024

I need a niche. Every artist needs a niche these days.

Take Mary Oliver. Almost every day one of her poems pops up in my Facebook feed. I’ve no idea why. She’s much too upbeat for my taste.

Yet up she pops, with her spiritual cheer. Best of luck to her, I say. She does it well. She’s found her niche.

So what is mine? What else is in the catalogue?

Mmm, stiff competition. A person of colour. A woman. Lesbian/gay male. In the process of transitioning. Disabled. Hey, whoa there, a bit too depressing. Where’s the last verse redemption?

My problem is, I’m a bit of everything. Sometimes I rhyme, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I argue, sometimes emote. I know it’s out of fashion, but I even do a bit of philosophical musing. Ooh la la! Where’s my USP?

How about being old? Could that be my USP? Coffin-dodger poetry, the Baby Boomer bard. Old is just boring, though. Smells of urine. Who wants to read a poem and be reminded that they’ll be old as well one day?

Quick, click on a link, get me outa here, guys!

Ah, an echo chamber. Phew, that was close. Hey, that’s just what I was thinking, bud. Great minds, uh? Can I take this opportunity to tell all you guys that you’re so unbelievably cool?

Maybe my niche could be having no niche. Kinda clever in a way, don’t you think? Rather French. But some bastard probably got there first. Like half the poets in history.

A niche of having no niche. Hmm. Best of luck with that. Let’s just call it brave.