I must get this off my chest:
German markets have been cursed.
They sell such smelly sausages.
But I suppose it could be wurst.
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Complaint
Tag Archives: Poem
Romantic Trope
The poor but plucky heroine
meets a sexy billionaire.
It began with one Miss Scarlett
and her, Well, I do declare!
Read of many lively ladies
in bonkbusters everywhere.
But now new scribes forego the drapes
and lose the underwear.
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What We Do
For Paul
***
Writers write and painters paint but artists don’t art
and musicians don’t mu.
Bikers bike and drivers drive, blimps go limp
but coupes don’t coup.
Coiffeurs coif, hairdressers dress hair,
but nail techs don’t nail techs (or perhaps they do).
Fighters fight, professors profess
but hatters don’t hat and surgeons don’t surge.
If you want a rest, don’t be a restaurateur.
Deference now will be deferred
for dukes might du and earls might er
but kisses and caresses will never ki-care
and lords don’t lord over anyone
the way I lord it over you.
Poets don’t po but they sometimes pout;
love is hard so now and then I want out
but love being love will overcome
and I’d like to…overcome you.
Darling, please, don’t misread my fuss:
this is not adieu, not toodle-oo, for the truth
is there, like shoppers shop and customers cuss,
like flies fly, like beetles beet, like bees just be,
that you
and me
equals us.
***
I am not a romantic so it won’t surprise you to learn that I forgot that yesterday was Valentine’s Day; this despite the fact that I was booked to do a poetry reading of love poems.
I’d put my memory failure down to my age except that I have form: I have forgotten the occasional anniversary and once, his birthday – having thrown him a party the previous weekend, I can hardly be blamed now, can I? It’s not like a 21st birthday is a big deal…
Happy belated Valentine’s Day, darling. I’m posting this poem as a sop to my romantic readers, as we’ve never celebrated it anyway: love should be shown every day, not just once a year.*
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*Where’s my gift?
And the other 44 I should have received, if you’re showing your love every day?
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Turd Central
Old dogs:
Incontinent, until they pop their clogs.
***
Fun Poetry Fact #4
The poet George MacDonald wrote a poem with just two words:
The Shortest and Sweetest of Songs
Come. Home.
***
As far as I can recall, I don’t have a poem made up of two words; but I do have a three-word poem, a one-word poem, and a poem with no words at all.
Here’s how we do it: we cheat. We use the title to do half the work. Consider MacDonald’s title:
- He warns us to expect a short poem.
- The words ‘Sweetest’ and ‘Songs’ soften our view of what comes next.
- ‘Come. Home’ just screams love and yearning because of the title.
The poem could work with alternative titles, but would it be as good?
Mother Screaming On Her Doorstep For Her Kids
Come. Home.
Every Football Team to the FA Cup
Come. Home.
Reluctant Split
Come. Home.
*
You get the general idea.
To answer my own question: no, the poem wouldn’t be as good with an alternative title. MacDonald’s skill is in being somewhat vague, because he leaves the reader to fill in the gaps. As all good poetry should,
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In Praise of my New Hat
I have a hat
It is divine
I love that hat
Because it’s mine
The felt is blue
The brim turned up
The band is full
Of silly stuff
I wear it on
A special day
Because I need
To indicate
I’m there to teach
And create fun
That’s why my Writing Hat is on
***
Chatting to a colleague about the difficulties of getting people in the local community centre to engage with writing, I said, ‘The problem is, people don’t know when I’ve got my writing hat on…I should get a hat.’
And I did!
I debuted it last Friday and it was a big success because, even as short as I am (though not as short as I was: see Identity Crisis for details) no one could miss me.
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Guest Poet Ron Lavalette
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Ron and I are old blogging friends. He is a wonderful poet so, when he outpoemed and outclassed me in his response to my poem Vanity. I asked him for permission to publish it here. He kindly consented.
If you’re a poetry fan and have a fondness for short form poems, then I suggest you visit Ron’s blog or buy his book.
You won’t be sorry you met
Mister Ron Lavalette.*
*I’m assuming the pronunciation of your surname, Ron; please let me know if I’m wrong.
Ron’s poem:
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A king took a dip in his crown
but (being no merman) he drowned
I’d be willing to bet
that his crown jewels got wet
and his queen, at the castle, just frowned.
She’d told him to stay home and rule,
but the King was a beach-seeking fool.
She knew that he oughta
stay out of the water
or at least stay home by the pool.
But the oceanside called to The Man,
saying “Come here! Come play in my sand!”
When he took a quick dip
water seeped through his lips
and his lungs just couldn’t expand.
***
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Vanity
A king went swimming in his crown.
Not being a merman,
He drowned.
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Overheard
I’m glad I weren’t there when you ‘ad yer kids,
said the one-legged woman;
by ‘eck, lass, yer mard.’
Thus, a woman with three limbs scorned
one with two bad knees,
then returned to her bingo cards.
***
mard: English northern slang for a crybaby
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When I Am Dead: A Poem That Made Me Think A Little
When I am dead,
think only this of me:
there is a corner of
some kitchen drawer
that will be
forever mingled.
I know I’ll leave a mess.
I’ll be dead.
I couldn’t care less.
***
I read When I Am Dead, My Dearest by Christina Rossetti, and my brain went, You should parody Rupert Brooke’s The Soldier, because that makes no sense, being inspired by one poem to write a pastiche of another (a pastiche is a text that imitates/is in the style of another text).
Here’s the thing about any writing: each mind is unique and makes connections that other minds don’t.
Here’s another thing about writing: it’s okay to write what you like; don’t ever feel obliged to write something just because someone says you must (creative writing classes excepted, of course, otherwise you’ve wasted your money).
Yet another thing about writing is that you should always write your truth; hence this poem about my sloppy housework.
Poetry Fluff 