A friend of mine (hi, Paul!) recently held an anti-poetry evening with some like-minded fans of verse (sporting a “Poetry is Shit” t-shirt) – it’s quite fitting then that I should stumble upon this little poem that I quite like. As with most poems that I’ve neglected in the past, I don’t truly recall what manner of hard times or thoughts spurred me to write this, but I like it all the same. I might even read this to myself when I am old.
A poem from my student years, discovered deep in my hard drive. I recall that I had attempted to write something that would sound good with the tempo of a runaway train, but that would slow to a gentle stop in the final line. I implemented dactylic heptameter to achieve this. Did I succeed? Read it out and let me know!
A poem from 2009, that I seem to have written a rationale for; I attempted to write a love poem without the word ‘love’ in it. This one’s fun out loud due to my choice of Dactylic Tetrameter; the nature of the structure is that it rolls off the tongue as an ever-flowing list.
Another Creative Writing challenge was to produce something where the first line was the same as the last line. Inspired by nonsense poems, I tried to create a series of near-limericks that have the same first and last lines – but also, these repeated lines sound almost identical to the next poem’s first and last
If you haven’t yet caught the incredible Worst Idea of All Time podcast by Tim Batt and Guy Montgomery (on the http://www.littleempirepodcast.com/ network) then you’d better drop whatever it is you’re doing and give it a listen now! It’s some of the funniest spontaneous content on the web, and true gold comedy. Long story short, I sent
The answer is that I try to construct such poetry whilst strictly obeying my chosen syllabic foot and line meter. What does this mean? Well, my latest embarrassment of a business card was created with the hopes that more people will be able to identify these poetic constructions, and try sticking to them when they
He rode a metronome, a-saddled high, burdened with lead, Weeks a-rode from home, September sky unpleasant red, His head a heavy tome, a desp’rate guy in want of bed, A dirt encrusted dome, black-dripping eye, and close to dead. His hoss, a steady mare, relentless marching in its sway, A’course, not heard no-where neither a
I wrote this in the spring of 2011, looking out of the window on a train leaving Cardiff A bronzing autumn afternoon in spring, That radiates a gorgeous golden glow, Oh, precious sun, herald the evening, Through tempered twilight’s tanning undertow. The last we see are copper-coloured reds, And bars of luscious long-lamenting light, Before
A quick piece of iambic pentameter inspired by my two favourite poets of yesteryear, William Shakespeare and John Donne. Shall I compare thee to a sonnet verse? Though art more lovely and more musical. Rough winds prevent time needed to rehearse, Though summer’s lyrics remain whimsical. Sometime too vague a sonnet’s matter reads, And often
I stumbled on this opening that I churned out to a longer form poem – I’ll probably add to it and edit it as time goes on, but here’s just the beginning… I came upon a solitary steed, Though in itself not a peculiar sight, It was of gentle stand and healthy breed, And harnessed
The fourth poem in my Seasons quartet How beautiful the elegance of slowly turning old, The elegy of decadence that’s wilting brown and gold, The gentle sinking of the sun between the harvest-trees, That shows, through glows of telling beams, the thinning of the leaves. The turning of the soil, but the toil of this chore