Iambic yermametre
Strophe.
I’m going to attempt a Pindaric Ode.
I think I’m being rather ambitious.
It mightn’t be good but I’m on the road.
Mastery of form is among my wishes.
Antistrophe
But what on earth am I trying this for
I’m no poet, my doggerel is dreadful
There is no desire to be published here
It’s just that I think words are very cool.
Epode
Because that’s all that really matters isn’t it?
A love of words put together with grace
Perhaps a dash of comedy or wit
I am learning these things at my own pace
Theory doesn’t limit you, it frees you.
Strive for good craft and the art will surely come
The rules were put in place for a reason
You cannot break a rule that is unkown.
Ignoring convention is well and good
Because being rebellious is cool
A two fingered salute to convention
Signposting that you are too cool for school.
But you’ll get left behind by the grafters
Who chisel at the coalface of their art
Never seeking plaudits or ovations
Preferring good craft over being smart.
In this weeks class we were prompted to write and epistle or a letter, an excellent example of which is Letter to N.Y. by ELizabeth Bishop. Mine ended up being essentially a list of people and things from Belfast.
(I really did try to make it as evenly split between the genders as I could. I recently bought “The Penguin Book of Contemporary Irish Poetry”. It fetes thirty-one men and FOUR women. That cannot be right.
Anyway.
Belfast
Dia duit, fair faa ye, how’s she cuttin’?
What about ye, how’s the form, are ye well?
Ar mhaith leat cupán tae, céad míle fáilte.
I hiddy say I think yer luckin’ well.
Belfast baps, soda farls fresh off the griddle.
Paddy pizza, seaweed dulce, yellow man.
Sweet fifteens, Irish stew, Mars Bar sandwich.
Bushmills whiskey, malted loaf, Paris bun.
George Campbell, Keith Drury, Terry Bradley.
Muriel Grant, Doris Blair, Deborah Brown.
Jack Morrow, Ian Knox, Alex Monteith.
Sarah Longley, Noreen Rice, Jean Osbourne.
James Galway, Gary Moore, Van Morrison.
The Undertones, Phil Coulter, Therapy.
The Answer, Snow Patrol, The Four of Us.
Rigid Digits, The Divine Comedy.
Paul Muldoon, John Hewitt, Seamus Heaney.
Derek Mahon, Chris Agee, James Simmons.
Colette Bryce, Ruth Carr, Sinead Morrisey.
Leontia Flynn, Maureen Boyle, Kate Newman.
John Hewitt, Duke of York, The Pavillion.
The Sunflower, The Deers Head, Lavery”s.
Woodworkers, Madden’s Bar, or The Garrick.
Kelly’s Cellars, Whites Tavern or McHughs.
You bring me back to earth when I get notions
And pick me up again when I am sad.
Belfast is so full of contradictions.
You’re a home for the blesséd and the damned.
Toxic masculinity, we have learned
Demands impossible standards of men
and has a co-morbid fear of commitment
We see this now. We want to do better.
We want to be better. We listened.
We understand now. We know what to do.
We now realise that we aren’t good enough
We need to go and become good enough
Before we could possibly commit to anything.
We’re out trying to become wonderfully woke
Fantastically feminist and perfectly progressive.
We’ll get back to you once we’ve decided we’ve got there.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP…
This week we are tackling poetry about other forms of art. A great example is Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats. Here’s my offering.
The Persistance of Memory.
Salvador Dali.
I don’t understand what I’m looking at
But it has me completely in its thrall.
A clock draped over the branch of a tree.
Another one is melting down a wall.
Is that your face in the middle of this?
I see an eye, a nose and a moustache.
Off in the distance a cliff and a beach.
A shore where the real and the surreal clash
I don’t understand what I’m looking at.
But know that I’m completely mesmerised.
You have awoken something inside me
And I walk away from this energised.
The Sestina. A very complex scaffold upon which to build a poem. Far too detailed for me to go into but The Poetry Foundation describes it thusly:
It is ambitious of me and I wouldn’t have been able to do this without a ready reckoner of some sort and in this its Stephen Fry’s “The Ode less Travelled” which is brilliant. If you like poetry and wish to understand it better or even, heaven forfend, start writing your own then its as good a start as you’re going to get. Anyway…
Why Bother?
Who could be bothered writing poetry?
In any case, who these days has the time?
It takes time and patience and commitment
And that’s just to read, never mind write.
Is this just a waste of my time and yours?
Maybe so, but is that such a bad thing?
Time taken for yourself is a Good Thing
And you could do worse than to read poetry
So have a moment, exclusively yours
And don’t place any limits on your time.
This poem took time and effort to write
All I ask is a little commitment.
Words offered in exchange for commitment
I know that I’m asking for no small thing
What I offer took days and weeks to write
I hope that it passes for poetry
and you don’t feel like I’ve stolen your time
The one thing that is exclusively yours.
So from my mind, through my pen and to you
And for ten minutes of commitment
On your part, which isn”t really much time
I present to you this word laden thing
A rough and ready go at poetry
That needs a ready reckoner to write.
Why do I feel the need to sit and write
Has it ever entered that mind of yours
To question why people write poetry
What kind of mind would make this commitment
Who would do such an unusual thing
Which will take but not return your time.
For me it is no waste of effort or time
If you want to be good at writing, write.
There is no substitute, no other thing.
Time and effort decisions are just yours
And so is the level of commitment
If you want to be good at poetry.
How you spend your time is a choice that’s yours.
I use mine to write and make commitment
To this silly thing I call poetry,.
This one contains a few top-shelf sweary words. If you’re offended by profanity then have a word with yourself and grow up.
Self improvement
I’m thinking.
I’m thinking about ways to improve me.
I think I’ll begin by telling more cunts
To fuck off.
Already
I begin to feel a little better about me.
The thought of telling more cunts to fuck off
Sparks much joy
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.
