Iambic yermametre
It’s odd, this aging thing.
When “just the other day”
Can mean anything from
Yesterday to a decade ago.
Or knowing the lyrics
To every album
That Iron Maiden
Released in the 1980’s
But not having a clue
in the remotest sense
About what I had for
Breakfast, just this morning
Forty Steps
Down to the shorefront.
Take a moment to look at the lough.
See Strangford on the other side
As the boat to’s and fro’s its passengers.
Turn right. There’s a field.
Beside that a path leads up to
A turnstile. Go over this and walk
Up what we here call “The Forty Steps”.
The path meanders.
Trees wall either side of the path.
Flowers bloom. Birds sing. Then we see an arch.
We can use this fallen oak as a bench.
Let’s just sit here
And be here now with each other.
We can let the outside world be for now
And enjoy this forgotten patch of Eden.
Week 2 of my poetry course invited us to consider hate. Have a rant, get it out but try to consider a positive or positives that could be wrought from it.
Of course I went meta and tackled hate itself.
Hate.
Uncontrolled hate is a dangerous thing.
It will eat you alive from the inside.
Hate distorts truth and distrusts everything.
It can fill your head with poisonous lies.
Hate can shine a light on what makes you tick
If you can calmly observe it at work.
You will soon see that your minds being tricked
And destroy shadows where your demons lurk.
Hate is a poison with one antidote,
The universal panacea love.
This relief may bring a lump to your throat
And more freedom than you could have dreamed of.
I have started a Poetry Writing Course being ran by the Crescent Arts centre in Belfast and is being facilitated by Stephen de Burca. I am thoroughly enjoying being in a space with other like-minded people. Every week we are given prompts and asked to write something. I do write every day but it rarely has a focus or a plan.
Week one. Write a Haiku about each of the seasons:
| Spring: Daffodils Blossom. Lambs leap and bleat in fields. The sun gently shines. | Summer: Air conditioning Is not something that we here Thought we’d ever need |
| Autumn: Red, yellow and brown Make a carpet for the ground. Dogs are delighted. | Winter: Footprints in fresh snow. Icy projectiles surprise Any who come near. |
I’m quite content with those.
OK I have hmm’d and haa’d but most importantly I have Paid for this site so I am going to start using it.
The same loose collection of things that pop into my head but I have lately become a lot more focussed on poetry with specific reference to Poetry born here.
I am as comfortable with Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dante as I am with Heaney, Mahon and Kavanagh. I have a particular preference for poetry in my accent and that could well be the focus of this whatever this is. They used to be called blogs, didn’t they?
