POEMS LEAD POETS
This poem as emerged is actually
far more bitter and anguished
than its writer. Or far less …
What the hell. Let’s let it go;
it’s just the way it grew.
The initial germ here sprouted out
from a piece of Sarah’s weeks ago
that somehow caught my interest.
I’d have trouble locating it now;
it’s transmorphed completely.
Laboured at it for hours; it wouldn’t let go.
Clearly it’s determined to have its say.
As for you, happening by readers
looking out for an explanation
dream on, friends, dream on.
POETRY n MOTION
This planet we stand on
Hurtling through space
With its wobbly spin …
We’re almost oblivious
Enough so to proclaim
That we can stand still
We surrender to motion
Car, bus, plane or boat
Forgetting after a while
That we’re moving at all
Until some sudden jerk
Serves as if to remind us
A SHAPELY VERSE
I see you may be my kind of poet
I may be your kind – Who knows?
The future is just around the corner
We could explore – Become followers
We can unfollow – No damage done
Been there, done that, survived
Maybe you are my kind of poet
Or maybe I simply like the shape
LIGHTLY FELT TIPS
When you learn to distinguish
between what is truly good in poetry
(especially your own)
and what is – shall we say – not so good
then you are almost there.
The rest is just practice, daring,
risk taking and self confidence.
Satisfying yourself is the foundation.
Rules are there to follow or break;
pleasing others a welcome bonus.
So leave the back door wide open
and invite the Musey Lady in for a brew.
She loves to take a load off.
If she’s silent, it’s only ‘cos she’s thinking.
She’s just observing, sipping her tea.
DOVER BEACH – Matthew Arnold (Published 1867)
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
DOVER BEACH – The Fugs (Released 1967)
Waving to weavers
While weaving while wondering
Why weave and why why
While weaving while wandering
Wondering, weaving, waving
This is dedicated to all readers who are also writers, and especially those who may be called – by themselves or by others – poets.