i love poetry; though, writing it more than reading it. i tend to dislike what passes as poetry in this age, unless it's of the humourous kind. Pam Ayres is a big favourite. of course, somewhat disenfranchized from this age, i also like the older, more traditional styles, for such style and for the way of representing speech as that's more how we speak around these parts. although sometimes, a bit of translation is needed (but that only makes them better): reason laboureth will, to win will's consent,
to take lack of beauty. but as an eyesore,
the fair and foul by dark are like store.
when all candles be out, all cats be grey,
all things are then of one colour, as who say,
and this proverb sayeth, for quenching hot desire,
foul water as soon as fair will quench hot fire.
where gifts be given freely, East, West, North or South,
no man ought to look a given horse in the mouth.
my own latest (and a work in progress): if i fell from owd nicky's pike,
i'd be there at least a week,
i'd have to hear the 62,
and the swallows swift and sweet,
and the river'd foam,
and no-one'd come,
to save me from my plight,
i'd one day be th'owd bogman,
down by yon nicholas pike.
so, laid astill, while dicky hill looms darkly in the sky,
with broken bones and near to home, i'm happy so to die.
of course, mine aren't always so cheery :biggrin:
and, not being a fan of the overtly introspective ramblings, i've surprised myself by how many i've written: a kick: a scraping up stone.
pressure: ball against lace and tongue against bone.
an ethereal trip that stone fails to make,
then a boom from brick that feels like a quake.
the empty bag returns filled with a grudge.
the ball, the wall: neither will budge.
running in closer, closing the time,
angry air, stubborn clay, burning lime,
it keeps coming back, it won't go away,
trainer toes scuffed. brick, a-bray,
two feet to kick,
two feet from wall,
flawed, i stall.
all vigour now rescinded,
cooling a sweaty brow,
instantaneously, momentarily winded,
by rebounding questions: why? why now?
i can't even remember what that was about :laugh:
oh, yeah, you'll be wanting a diapery one, no doubt: now i lay me down to sleep,
i pray my bladder for to weep,
into terry, 'neath plastic pants,
come morning sprawl, for all a glance.
to be patted awake by my mum,
hand-a-gently 'pon padded bum,
then rising up, when dawn comes coldly ,
and vinyl complaining, oh-so boldly.
to crinkly waddle down the stairs,
sticky-eyed and strafing hairs,
to greet my clan with a yawn,
all unconcerned at my adorn.
and onto seat with a crispy squish,
smelling hot milk and frosties about to dish,
with chin on table and my toes acurled,
in spiderman socks, then nappy and t-shirt (children of the world).
"ade's wet, again" would ask my mother's daughter,
on the subject of washing, "is there any hot water?"
then up to the bathroom with it's tepid stream,
and possibly an end to this nine year old's dream?
this is one of my faves: Aye, Miss Clipper, thou were a dainty wee lass,
Virginally dressed as an age was to pass.
Resplendently restive, as filly should be,
Scorning a colt, 'tis time for tea.
With arm afore be, forever to chase,
A tail before thee, nay slacken o' pace.
Oh, Nannie, Nannie, o' cauldron o' tea,
Hoick up thy skirts and skim o'er t' sea.
another diapery one: Madness, by Marsha.
here i blog, yet again;
it's been a while but, hear my refrain:
now, this all started a while ago, and i haven't yet told,
about my son, ade, and granny's garb of old.
as you know, every night without fail, he wets the bed,
and to such an extent that he'd wet the pillow for his head,
until drynites, of course, though they weren't perfect,
and i thought they'd offer my son some self-respect.
so things were, but he should have stopped by nine.
but, life goes on, and on i went with mine.
this includes my weekends away;
ade slept at grandma's and off, i would play.
and then, one sunday, i collected him early,
and i knew he'd be half asleep, all sullen and surly,
but, there were things to do, school-clothes to alter and to press,
so, ade needed fitting, i couldn't have him looking a mess.
being turned out prim and proper, i got that from mum, by the way,
our clothes were handmade, taken from the posh designs of the day.
this particular sunday, one of those designs had a reprise,
once worn by my brother for a musical tease,
wherein, his part was as a dancing tot,
such a long time ago that i'd almost forgot.
thus, on this morn, as i expected the moans and the stomps down the stairs that could lead to a fall,
came tentative steps betrayed by creaks and a faint brushing of hand against the wall.
as he emerged from the stairway, embarassed and enthused,
i was half shocked, half giggling..... and half confused.
"mother!" i exclaimed, "why's he dressed like that?" i exclaimed a bit more.
"oh, well, love," mother began, " his disposable nappies, those drynites, are so poor,
that i thought the extra coverage would be better,
and the mattress couldn't take such a heavy wetter.
of course, it's not perfect, it's a bit too small,
look, were the towel is poking out, it's wet an' all."
so, that explained the plastic bottomed romper suit,
that barely contained his 'nappy'; but it was quite cute.
in fact, it was too cute. you could hardly tell that he was boy,
except for the blue, and his holding an action-man toy.
unfinished and an attempt at writing a decently long one, rather than my usual short-and-sweet.
afinish with a humourous one (and previously posted): now, i've also been thinking 'bout writing a song,
but every time i try, it comes out wrong.
i tried a little line 'bout making you mine,
but all that i wrote was 'kippers in brine'.
in case you've not sussed it or in case you've missed,
my 'Loving You' became 'Shopping List':
half a pound of carrots, a packet o'spuds,
impulse buy: some stretchy gruds,
a big jar o'coffee and tot-tots, too,
and a brand new lace for my worn-out shoe.
walking 'bout the shop with a wobbly wheel,
down the baby-aisle and there i squeal,
for new-style Drynites are 2 for 1
(thought about home, where i've got none).
so, i grabbed 2 packs and off i went,
thinking, "bloody ticky pull! i've over-spent!"
yep, love is like shopping and please, don't scoff,
for the best i'm gonna get is a sound BOGOF!
I wrote poetry all through college. It was the only thing keeping me sane, or maybe it drove me mad. I was and still am a big fan of Arthur Rimbaud. I love the English poets, Keats, Yeats...though he's Irish. I don't want to raise the Irish of Ade, and what wondrous poetry he writes. I'm impressed. I love it.
If you check out my story, "The House at the End of the Road", I wrote some simple poetry to carry the story, nursery rhymes told by the local children about a haunted house. Start with "The House.....part I" because it's on page 2 of the story forum. I'm hesitant to paste my poetry here because I'm thinking about publishing. I did have a poem published professionally in an anthology when I was in college. My English teacher submitted it and it was accepted and published.
you should check out button poetry. It's a youtube channel with some amazing poetry recorded on it. They even have a few pieces they made like music videos for but for the poetry. Some, if not all, of my favorite poems are from this channel.
ta, for t' comments
oh, and neat poem, Marka. i couldn't find your nursery rhymes, dogboy, but it reminded me that i need to clear up the whole Plop Gear thing: it was me! i confess!
but only because issue 23 had a piss-take on the whole 'littles' thing (The Brats) who concocted a taunting playground rhyme: i know a man, his name's [censored],
i can't tell you what he'd do,
but he's banned from playgrounds, parks and school,
go near him and you're the fool!