I figure now is the time
If you like my rhymes
To offer to you
A whole collection
Of my reflections
A cut-out poem, from twenty-two horse clichés
So thinks the horse: don’t like; can’t look.
Own horse were horse enough but if you could put
the flogging horse off…its hobby is to eat of me.
Horses stalking a Trojan make sense:
horses pack lead in your town; eat beggars.
I’m hungry…Horse it! wild horse wishes.
Ride a horse; choke a horse;
drag a horse to Dead Horse Mouth.
Wouldn’t a doctor as a gift get high as a horse?
I would spare a good horse to cart a horse.
You can colour the heaviest horse.
Horses wink the dark drink away.
One horse don’t water the horse.
Nod before every different horse.
This poem is rather dark for a lighthearted poetry blog, but it was an accident, I swear!
Cut-out poetry is a really easy way to create poems: take any text, print it out, then cut out the words you want to use. In this instance, I took twenty-two of the twenty-five horse clichés I found here, and played around with them until I had used all the words. (I ignored three unfamiliar idioms, and changed ‘beat’ to ‘flogging’, as that’s how I know it.)
The words you have in front of you will direct your poem to a certain extent – hence the dark tone of mine – and that’s really helpful if you’re struggling to write.
You are allowed to use your own punctuation. Subtle changes can help e.g. I capitalised ‘dead/horse/mouth’ to make them a name/place.
If you have a go, using my suggested or your own found text, do please share in the comments. I’d love to see them!
To compensate for today’s miserable offering, I will post another horse poem tomorrow, much lighter in tone. It was written about ten years ago, when I was in a better mood 😉
if I could have one wish
it would be that every dish
I ate of fattening food
would reduce my weight
to a long-lost 8
and my belly would not protrude
(okay, that’s two
but greed is why I got so big:
I don’t know how to eschew)
USA readers: that’s a British size 8, which I think is a size 4 in Americanese.
Walk the red carpet
in concubine feet?
Watch at home, anonymous
Be celebrated, rich? Diet?
Drip haute couture?
Eat chocolate; slob
in granny knickers.
Never tweet a word without first
clearing it with your publicist?
I mean, there’s no contest,
Sorry! Technept here…this is tomorrow’s post, accidentally published the evening before.
Rather than cancel and schedule so that you receive two notifications, I’ll leave it as it is.
I can’t promise that it won’t happen again, because I’m not a liar and I am a luddite.
I see red
I go unread.
The piku poetry form is a blend of haiku and the first three numbers of pi:
Eight syllables, broken down 3-1-4
It doesn’t have to rhyme but I like the challenge.
If you fancy having a go, the easiest way is to write a prose sentence and then whittle it down to its bare essentials. Please do share in the comments if you try it.
Create a piku chain by keeping your sentence intact, but remember – 8 syllables: 3-1-4.
Soap…I’m not a fan.
Sorry if I burst your bubble, he shrugs,
as only a grubby lad can.
A bit o’ dirt won’t hurt
but soap in your eyes makes you cry.
I can’t cry; I’m almost a man.
two-two. I forgot; did you?
I will try to recall them
Did I mention I love palindrome dates? I forgot all about yesterday’s however, so I wrote this by way of apology.
If you count the words on each line in each stanza, you will see they add up like this: 2/2/6/2/2.
You can have a lot of fun when writing poetry; the words are only the beginning.
You know I hate to complain
but you ruined June again.
Now you’re trying to kill July.
Must we yank out our passports
and fly away to fairer lands,
impairing the planet along the way?
The solution is in your hands:
move over for the sun
so we can have some homespun fun.
Be a sport!
Love, the Damp Populace of Stockport.
Fact: it rains a lot here. I’m scheduling this poem so I can’t guarantee it’ll appear on a rainy day; but chances are it will, because it rains a lot here. Did I mention that it rains a lot here?
Try to stay awake:
it’s the longest day of the year,
especially for those whose kids
have started their summer break.
I don’t claim science is partisan
But if men had to flatten their bits
The way we’ve to compress our tits
Tests would be by remote scan
Tomorrow would have been George’s 136th birthday.
(Mallory on the Mountain, Book, Music & Lyrics by Oliver Mills)
One wife. Three kids. Author. Teacher.
But most of all, a hill besieger.
Climbed Mount Everest because it was there;
Broke his leg when he fell through the air.
A man who never knew when to stop,
Could he have been the first to reach the top?
We’ll never know because he died alone.
Took 75 years to find his bones.
Though he’s a footnote in history,
His legend’s one of great mystery.
If you don’t know this story, it’s fascinating: Mallory died on Everest in 1924, twenty-nine years before Norgay and Hillary made it to the summit. He promised to leave a photo of his wife at the top when he got there. His body was found in 1999 and most of his possessions were in good condition. The only belonging missing was a picture of his wife…did he make it to the top and leave it there? We’ll never know.
Read more here.
I first heard this story through Oliver Mills’ outstanding musical, Mallory on the Mountain, as my son happened to be playing Mallory. You can see a couple of videos here.