Free verse... again, we were warned that it can be difficult to control without a formal rhyming scheme, but I didn't find this. Having read both Auden and a bit of Larkin recently, the weighty diction was already foremost in my mind, and I would agree that free verse certainly lends itself to communication of anger.
I'm waiting for inspiration and other things to strike, Wondering if the hot iron Will hurt much, With the little part of my mind tossing clichés Around in my head like… Like… a big swirly thing… Frantic scribbling given way to calm, and purpose, And wondering why dead--lines are so-called. I mean… Dead… dead? Dead? That's a bit harsh, isn't it? On the one hand, the university looks bad If a degree is as easy as a fresher On a week-long bender, —But were it the reverse instead It might indicate poor selection, and Talking of elections —Which we almost were— It would look worse Were it publicised That reform of student funding Had seen Grant… And Sarah, and Tom… And all the rest… Join the ranks of those who fill The shallow graves of suicides. Well anyway… For me to write, to write of writing, seems a fraud, A sham of composition— A word which, I am reminded, is not Many letters away from compost, Which everything becomes in time, after all. So what's in a name, or a piece of paper? But I digress… Weren't we talking about poetry?