Freshtival
 

Hi,

The title of this thread is inspired by Mark Mc's 'Festival'.

Thanks again to everyone who contributed to the thread about fresh poetry in General Talk. I'm going to try to write a few fresh things based on the ideas expressed in the thread, but everyone is welcome to write from alternative perspectives.

On the subject of alt-perspectives, here's my sonnet by the Old Man of Gugh, a standing stone, spruced up since its first outing. I posted it at my international site, where it was well received. Other interpretations of the stone are possible.

Performance note: deep booming voice (my older brother is good).


The Old Man of Gugh

How old am I? Darned rudeness. Twenty-one!
00Yes yes, I know your guidebook has "Bronze Age".
But why not let this fogie have his fun?
00You'd rather that than see me in a rage.
I've been a long time here, on brackened Gugh.
00They stood me up to guard their pottered graves.
I must admit, I like my slanting view –
00the hills and heath, the sand and stones, the waves.
I couldn't stop your Civil Warrers, mind.
00I mean, I glared, but they just tramped on through.
And then that Bonsor, come to make his find.
00"Sod off," I boomed. "There's nothing here for you."
These days, seems folks just want to take my pic.
"Lean in," they joke. If only I could kick!

- - -
Tomorrow: something free verse featuring paint.

Fliss, your sonnet (which I really enjoyed) reminded me of a poem I once wrote about the Kissing Stones.

A Rocky Affair

The Kissing Stones, part of the Wain Stones, are a natural sandstone outcrop. They have been weathered by the unrelenting weather up on Bleaklow, the largest mountain plateau in the Peak District National Park.

At last they meet again to kiss
after a split that seemed for good.
For eons they have longed for this.

Time stops as they anticipate
drawing close together. Whether
they ever will, no one can state

for certain. Not a thing ensues.
Their faces have begun to feel
as dry and coarse as gritstone. Clues

that something will occur are wanting
as Bleaklow’s flanks are short on flora.
Dunlins swirl in hundreds, taunting

the lovers for their wavering,
whose plight is bleaker than the land.
Perhaps these stones are savoring

this moment of expectancy.
Yet don’t they know rain, rough as scree,
will scour them till they cease to be?

Look at their eyes, so unaware
of the herb Robert growing near,
which knows more than this moonstruck pair.

Rocks, eh? This is from my very first collection.

The Menhirs at St. Pierre Quiberon

After a long game of follow-my-leader,
stumbling head-down, keeping out of range,
I saw my first “alignments”. Granite chunks,
lumpen, unlovely, slummocked in a queue
like students at a cashpoint on a campus.
Five almost-rows, but not quite half as straight
as teams of first-year infants at PE.
What Yorkshire folk call “neither nowt nor summat”.
A little grandeur, if you looked for it,
but mostly something awkwardly familiar.
I felt at home among the granite ghosts.

That odd one on the left – a little head
balanced on tea-tray shoulders, carefully.
The weatherworn excrescence at its back
suggested a small knapsack, carried high.
Its calculated military bearing
seeming an effort to outpace the shadow
of someone it would rather leave behind.
I knew that menhir. I had followed it,
crestfallen, all the way from Quiberon.

And so it came as something of a shock
to lay a finger on its lichened surface
and not to feel it flinch.

Stoned
 

1510

How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn't care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears—
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity—

Emily Dickinson

Welcome to Freshtival, Martin, Ann, Ralph :-)

Here are some strawberries 🍓 🍓 🍓 and, for each of you, a gift bag 👜 (it contains whatever you wish it to contain).

Martin, thanks for enjoying the sonnet. It's part of a series describing a trip around the Scilly Isles. I like your 'Rocky Affair' (I've googled), particularly for the dunlins but also for 'savoring / this moment of expectancy', which puts me in mind of Keats's 'Grecian Urn'. The 'herb Robert' is a pleasant addition too :-)

Ann, I've googled these menhirs and I enjoyed reading your poem. I like the Yorkshire folk and all the similes. Yes, rocks and stones; and one of my next pieces happens to be about trees...

Ralph, thanks for sharing this. I haven't read much Emily Dickinson; there's loads to stuff I want to read, bit the schedule keeps filling up, unfortunately. Sometimes I can listen to poetry things while coding, formatting, referencing, however. I love the 'Coat of elemental Brown' :-)

Here's syllabics/song written almost a decade ago as part of my sculpture series ('his-tor-ry').

Sliced Log Star

A man cuts down a tree,
his aim to play the sleuth,
detecting growth and history,
which he terms 'inner truth'.

A wooden star is sawn,
a monumental art,
and round its flanks the live oaks mourn
the taking of a heart.


And here's a new thing:

Thanksgiving

As his son speaks,
I see Grandad
during our last time together –
sage slacks, white shirt, beige cardigan,
blue eyes twinkling as he leans on his cane.

She, one of the stepdaughters,
muddies his smart clothes
and sets his eyes to reddening.
He wobbles and blurs, unstable.
Where did my Grandad go?

Thankfully,
Grandad returns in glory
with Dad's closing voluntary:
his clothes are sparkling
and his blue eyes gleam.

- - -
Tomorrow: possibly a trip.

Trip time...

This poem describes the first of three attempts to bandage my broken leg; Bro. A. (Adrian Teague) and Tess (my PA/carer) accompanied me into A&E on Saturday 13th June last year. I've posted the poem on 'Poemusicals' too, with musical accompaniment.


Trip 1 of 3

The trolley-bed awaiting me is close yet miles away.
I start to rise, get on my feet. 'Come on, come on!' I say.
The spasms start again. I scream, I roar. The pain is wild.
I want my mum. I'm 41 and suddenly a child.
I grab the bed and sit. 'No, sweet. Get on it properly now.'
I try. I scream. They grab my leg. I cry, 'Ow-ow-ow-ow...'
'What's going on?' A voice outside the curtains, soft and clear.
'They're [sigh],' Bro. A. explains. Then something else I can't quite hear.
A yellow pipe appears. It smokes. 'Inhale, good girl,' says Chong.
I breathe in breathe out, play the pipe. My woodwind lungs are strong.
The nurses blur, the spasms shrink. The curtains sway and part.
Bro. A. and Tess are here. Tess holds her hand against her heart.
'Hey yous!' I say. They hold my feet. She's left and he is right.
They raise and shift. They watch my face. We're spinning through the night.
I start to sing, of Mol' Malone, fair Dublin, pretty girls,
the cockles, mussels turn and turn in rushing rainbow whirls.
Now Brother A. is saying, 'Partly Irish', to a nurse
and Chong has finished bandaging. 'Good! Now it won't get worse.'
The spinning's slowing. Brother A. and Tess have left the room.
My clothes come off and I'm re-dressed in square-print gown of gloom.
The pain again. My nails are knives. I stab my wrist, my palm.
I whimper. Teddy Teague appears. He whispers, 'Just keep calm.'
'To AMU!' says Chong. 'Good luck,' he adds and pats my hand.
We ride to station no. 2 in Gloucester Hospiland.

- - -
Tomorrow: myth-kitties...

Perhaps I am alone in this, but it seems to that to select from my verse (I have just tried) anything to contribute to this thread implicitly suggests (certainly to me) that some, at least, of my other work is not 'fresh poetry' at all. Presumably, lacking in sharp originality or scintillating novelty of expression. I don't think I want to impose the rather negative collateral 'damage' which seems the inevitable consequence of such categorisation and I am pretty well at a loss to understand what, if anything, is achieved by erecting it in the first place.


Clearly, I am missing something - but I'm fogged if I know what. The poems so far posted are, to me, of varied clarity and ability to move/stimulate and I suspect I would have enjoyed them to precisely the same extent had the claims of 'freshness' never been made. However, as a stimulating range of verse - please, by all means, keep them coming.

Erm, I don't know how to reply to Nigel, so I've PM'd someone for guidance :-) :>) (thank-coos)

Now it's time for a myth-kitty sonnet. Thanks are due to Mark and to Ann, for their posts on the General Talk thread :-)

This is about a situation on FB.


Haha back

The new-bard thinks I shouldn't be myself,
00a wheelchair user, well beyond repair,
asexual and smiling on my shelf,
00so morphined up I find I cannot care
about the frowns he levels at my work,
00its unshared urge to tell the tattered truth;
he calls me 'Fool!' I think he's just a berk
00and keep on showing life in claw and tooth.
It's not the pretty kitty-myth he seeks –
00a glossy glowing cutey-catty thing.
I think he'll give up soon; it's been three weeks
00of tries to change me, sighing, sorrowing;
and every Angry makes me Haha back –
when people diss, they only show their lack.

- - -
Tomorrow: blood.

Well, Fliss... if 'fresh' is the quality aimed for, presumably 'stale' is the condition to be avoided and, if there are as many varieties of the former as there are readers, the latter is certainly absent from your own work and from your chosen exemplars. I thought Ann and Maryann particularly apt choices for your opening post - though, as you observe, there are many more.
Please don't feel the need to be advised. :) I'm just a bit puzzled as to why you wanted to define/refine the term. Not that my puzzlement matters - especially as your 'Freshtival' has garnered such varied and telling contributions.

Hi Fliss,

I do in fact have a stone poem I can add to the pile. It's about these two stones in Denmark: https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=...AAAAAdAAAAABAD

And here's the poem:


The Jelling Stones

When Gorm the Old put up the first of these
two runestones for his wife, the land was pagan.
They’re under glass these days. A little church
has stood beside them for a thousand years.

His son put up the second, bigger stone:
Harald Bluetooth, thinking of his parents.
And this stone says, he made Denmark and Norway
his, made the Danes Christian. There is Christ

entangled on its face above those runes,
yet folks have thought of Odin on his tree
to see Christ, arms outstretched, thus trapped in curls.
The bright paint’s almost gone, but those who read

the runes or images will learn of Harald.
Another face shows what may be a snake,
a lion in its toils. The runes beneath
do not interpret. And the little church

can’t tell you who these creatures are. They stood
beneath the sky of Jutland long enough
to shed the meaning they once had. The snake
may have the upper hand, but they’re not done.

 

mignon ledgard - A Daughter's Touch
 

A Daughter’s Touch

Stones in her back patio
sit around blue water
that lights up at night.

I should say boulders,
in honor. Solid, stately,
smooth enough to caress.

They look like animals
—sea lions, perhaps.
Big ones, small ones,

serene. Meditations
from the desert,
at home in the tropics.

Close, but not mingling,
terracotta vessels stand
on sand-color slabs;

silent soul-huggers,
they gather in pairs
and gracefully wait

for a promise of plants.
My daughter lulls them
with her green eyes.

~ml

Thanks, Nigel; it's good to know that I'm not entirely useless, lol. I mention Ann and Mark in the opening post, but I've read Maryann and I admire her poetry too. All the background threads are in GT: blog, New Formalism, fresh poetry 👍

John and mignon, welcome and thanks for your contributions. Here are your strawberries 🍓🍓🍓 and a magical gift bag for each of you 👜👜

John, many thanks for this fine introduction to the Jelling Stones. I think 'shed the meaning' is particularly interesting, especially so close to the snake 🐍

mignon, thanks to you too. I very much enjoyed reading your poem. appreciating 'sea lions' and 'silent soul-huggers' particularly 😍

Here's another sonnet, written this morning. It's a coming-of-age attempt and the 'I got it!' is from Judy Blume's Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret (1970).


Sonnet 13

The Hodgsons' garden gate was slightly stiff,
00like me, I thought, arthritic at thirteen.
I made towards the sheds and caught a whiff
00of rabbit pee and poo; I'd come to clean.
The guineas needed mucking out as well;
00I placed their carry-case inside the hutch.
They trotted in, dear Goldilocks and Belle;
00I stroked their hair; they chuckled at my touch.
The second task was tending Lady Winch,
00the rabbit, dark and often in distress;
I crouched, the effort causing me to flinch
00and cramp, then spot some blood upon my dress;
'I got it!' I exclaimed. And Lady leapt,
escaped across the fields. I stood and wept.

- - -
Tomorrow: a duet.

Hi Fliss,

Yup, the Jelling Stones (pronounced yelling I think) are cool. I'm glad you caught shed at work, and thanks for the strawberries - they went well with a banana I've just eaten mid-afternoon, back from the sights of San Antonio. The goodie bag I shall file away for after travel, con permeso.

I thought your sonnet was good and the subject matter underexplored. The closing couplet packs a punch.

Cheers,
John

For what it's worth, I really liked your sonnet, too - and there are some beautiful poems to read in this thread. It's lovely! A celebration of summer indeed.

As metrical poetry is not my forte, here's a freshly minted image as my contribution to the festival. I'm in another erasure phase. It's a bit soggy.

The source text is Wood and Sowerby (1859) The common objects of the sea shore : including hints for an aquarium.

At midnight we watched carefully for signs of Spring

http://sarah-janecrowson.com/wp-cont...vegetation.gif

A non-moving higher res version here.

Thanks for the background pointer, Fliss - but I had read most of that already. However, I remain unconvinced of the attraction/use of categories - in which case, (note to self) I really shouldn't waste others' time by questioning their existence or utility.
More to the point, your poems are all commanding of attention and have, for me, a quite startling facility with image and expression, so that I am left wondering, 'What, if anything, can you not write about?'
Labels - who needs them?

Word-Bird is excited and starts throwing strawberries 🍓🍓🍓 and gift bags 👜👜 at people in a random manner :>)


John, the Jelling Stones are indeed cool. You're welcome for the strawberries, which would have been very pleasant with the banana. I hope the trip to San Antonio went well. Re. the gift bag, propio (we hope that's correct).

Thanks for enjoying the sonnet, particularly the closing couplet :-)

- - -
Thanks, Sarah-Jane; your appreciation of the sonnet is worth a lot :-)

Thanks very much for the freshly minted image; yes, images are welcome at Freshtival, as are videos, music, etc. The mixture of text and images is striking; and we're always glad to see the deer!

- - -
You're welcome, Nigel. By all means remain unconvinced, if you prefer; I'm not inclined to crack a whip about it. Thanks for enjoying the poems. There's lots of stuff I can't write about, for psychological reasons. But I do my best with what suits, using the term 'fresh' as a light to guide my way. 'The poet's progress,' Word-Bird coos :>o


Here's the duet I mentioned, inspired by the Temple Greenhouse at Croome. I haven't set it to music yet; it's on the task list, as is adjusting the lyrics here and there ('scions', 'train'-hops'). Flora is a soprano; Ceres an alto. There'll be piano accompaniment and background humming.


Flowers and Fruits

Flora
I am Flora, the goddess of youth and of flowers
00and mine is the season of Spring;
I am buds bursting open in meadows and bowers
00and here are the gifts that I bring –
dainty daisies, bold buttercups, loud dandelions,
00sweet roses, forget-me-nots too,
all in bloom in their keenness to raise thousand scions
00in white, yellow, scarlet, and blue!

Ceres
I am Ceres, the goddess of fruits and of grain-crops
00and Autumn is mostly my time;
I am trees clad in baubles and fields full of train'-hops
00and here are my gifts in their prime –
fragrant grapes, comely cabbages, juiciest cherries,
00plump pears, wondrous wheat-ears as well,
all fresh ripened, displayed amongst fine beads of berries
00in purple, green, red, golden swell!

Flora et Ceres
Here's our Croome cornucopia, basket of plenty
00as carved on this temple of stone;
if you count up the contents you'll find over twenty,
00there's also some lichen fresh grown –
and on each side of pillars that look Roman Doric
00we goddesses gaze over routes
to the grand court of Croome, looking mighty historic
00and proud of our flowers and fruits!

- - -
Tomorrow: sculpture.

Image of sculpture :>)

Performance note: this might be one for YouTube.
Language: 'rorange' = combo of red and orange


As there is no hunting tomorrow

All
Whee-hee! We're free! Partay, partay!
We saw the hunters leave today!
Tomorrow we shall skip and play
and roam the woods at ease; hooray!

Deer 1
Without default to mode of dread,
I move to whimsy-ways instead:
I stand, abandon cautious tread,
a bright blue fish upon my head!

Deer 2 (mother)
I too bear fish, upon my back;
he rides in rorange over black,
directing us to river track
to drink and hear the ducks say 'Quack!'

Deer 3 (son)
I'm carrying a greeny bird,
who sings the sweetest song I've heard;
my mummy says she sounds 'absurd' –
I think that is a funny word!

Deer 4
A lizard snoozes on my tail:
he's earthy brown in skin and scale
and likes to race along the trail,
surpassing slug and snake and snail!

Deer 5
I wear a party hat, a tree
in yellow-gold, as you can see;
it's standing sunlit over me,
providing shade so pleasantly!

Deers 6 and 7
We sisters have a human man
on mind and flank in black and tan,
but small for our tomorrow-clan;
let's shake him off as best we can!

All
Whee-hee! We're free! Partay, partay!
We saw the hunters leave today!
Tomorrow we shall skip and play
and roam the woods at ease; hooray!

🍄🍄🍄

Tomorrow: worms.

Here is stone poem I think I posted in the planet thread. But, since this thread has a few stone poems, I figured I may as well put here.

Stones

Stones huge as moons can yet strike any planet
that goes around the sun. Even a giant
like Jupiter’s at risk. So what of Earth,
our tiny water world where there’s no dearth
of plants and ants and people, all reliant
on Gaia’s bounty and of utter luck?
Our solar home, since gravity began it,
has lived through impacts thoroughly stupendous,
which made the Earth and moon yet still could end us.
Comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 had struck
a whopper world, witnessed by humankind
July of ’94. A wake-up call.
A punch in the gut! Colossal comet bits
the size of mountains gored that gassy ball
which gulped them in its atmospheric rind.
Let’s scan the skies round Earth before one hits!

(Appeared in The Oldie.)

Sometimes I wonder if there's anything I haven't written about, whether I have scribbled things down and torn them off one by one like sheets of toilet paper. Used. Gone. I recently aired my wobbly knowledge about a punctuation mark (on The Deep End) and then remembered I'd written a poem about it that turned into a poem about something else entirely. As they do.

Interrobang

Inside my belly is a tiny man
trapped upside-down. He is a question mark;
an asking-for, a please, a lust for food.
I feed him fishes who will swim beside him
keeping him company. I feed him crusts
so that his hair will curl, and kale
so his small eyes will see me in the dark.
I feed him coal because that’s what he’ll need
when he firstfoots his way into the world
and begs a welcome at a stranger’s door.
I feed him onions so he will be strong
and learn how not to cry. I feed him yeast
so that he will uncurl and stand up straight
when he becomes an exclamation mark.

(Appeared in Soundzine and Equinox)
.

Yes, Martin; I remember this one. By all means post stuff from other threads. Among the many highlights here are 'plants and ants', 'whopper world', 'gulped'. And congrats for the poem's appearance in The Oldie :-)

Ann, yes, I can imagine you have an impressive archive. I like this poem; it evokes several thoughts, some bizarre. Congrats for publishing successes!

Now, worms. Yesterday a poetry-pal suggested I might like to write a response-poem to Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress'. I didn't feel particularly confident at the prospect, but I thought I'd give it a go. I researched previous responses to make sure I would come up with something different. This is the first draft, written this morning and tweaked throughout the day. It still needs work, in many ways.


From His Coy Mistress (draft 1)

Ah, world and time, sir. My, how grand!
The pen you wield within your hand
must surely be a weighty thing,
majestic as the finest ring
a jeweller might produce from, say,
a ruby from the Ganges' bay.
Your ink must rush like Humber's course
as he parades from eastern source
to swirling sea. The flood, indeed!
At this I feel an anxious need
to gather all my clothes and books
and board a ship. Come, maids and cooks!
The water rises fast. Oh, woe!
However will our veggies grow?
Perchance this may require some work
from men most disinclined to shirk
their duties, thousandfold at least.
You must recruit from west to east!
Invest an epic kind of cost
before the world and time are lost.
00The flood recedes; I come ashore
in hope of finding, please, no more
disturbance to perplex my brain.
Oh, sir. You seek to harm again
with wingèd chariot of Time;
I fret anew. I start to climb
a ladder deep within the mind
that leads to comfort, where I find
oases and a cheerful song
of life and laughter, not so long
and, fortunately, free from worms;
your lines quite overwhelm with squirms.
00Now in this mode I cannot think
to sport with one who spills such ink,
which, far from rousing, causes ill:
the preying birds are shrieking, shrill;
the dew is dirtied on my skin;
my soul resists, grows pale and thin
until I have no strength for games
and certainly no instant flames.
The ball we roll was once a sweet,
but now it is decaying meat;
I pick it up, I raise it, sir,
and toss it out to yonder cur;
our sun is sick from violent verse
and romance rots within a hearse.

- - -
Tomorrow: something shorter, perhaps about a stone.

Unfortunately I lost the strawberries when I edited the previous post. Here they are again...

🍓🍓🍓

My version - "To His Coy Masters" - focussed on George W. Bush and the Iraq War, can be found under that title (or via Andrew Marvel in the category of "Poets Displeased") on my website www.warpoetryimprint.co.uk

Is this it, Nigel? I don't know whether my browser's at fault, but I can't see a poem there, just grey space. Perhaps I'll try again tomorrow :-)

I'm returning to the Sculpture Trail to appreciate this piece. Sorry the poem is short and not very good. I had a hectic day at work, unfortunately.


The Heart of the Stone

I am exposed,
save for the remnants
of my own flesh
beside me,
which shelters only slightly
in this upper world.

He cut an eye
and I observe sideways,
learning seasons, animals,
and trying to belong.

The heat is good,
the cold excruciating;
and the movement of feet
over my smoothness
is ecstasy,
likewise the caresses
around my eye.

- - -
Tomorrow: more art (if time permits).

Look again, Fliss.
In the 'grey space' at the top you will see the title "To His Coy Masters" - click on it, the letters turn light purple and the poem opens up immediately.

Alternatively, click on the heading 'All Titles' and the alphabetical list of the anthology will open - scroll down to 'To His Coy Masters'..... OR just have a browse through the anthology which, an opening poem on Bush apart, is arranged, more or less, chronologically from William Collingbourne onwards.


'To His Coy Masters' will be found immediately after a trio of 'displeased Miltons' ending with a version of 'On His Blindness' and just before Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset's contribution which I called 'The Middle Ground'.

🍓🍓🍓

Hello again, Nigel,

I must've missed the link yesterday. I like the light purple letters; they're pretty. And the poem is excellent; what happened with the anthology? I'm taken with the idea of writing against war.


Now, however, for something very peaceful. Before she died from lung cancer in 1985, my gran on Dad's side painted two pictures – one for my older brother and one for me. She had intended to paint one for little bro too, but she didn't live long enough, sadly.

This is my poem describing the first picture. I wrote it in 2013.


Her Picture of Grandad, for Graham

Positioned by his garden gate,
and row of fence-posts, white, tall, straight,
he breaks, perhaps, from planting toil,
his fork wedged deep in Kentish soil.

Beside him, long-furred canine Zak,
in shining swathes of jettest black,
both gazing out, beyond their lands,
to where her tripod easel stands.

Behind, stout walnut trees in ranks,
upon gold-petalled primrose banks,
a hedgehog naps in sunny patch,
her sharp coat tousled into thatch.

Each side, tall frames of runner beans
watch over cabbages, slick greens,
placed deftly in his perfect row,
all open leaf, pale hearts aglow.

Above, his grand parade of beech
swings smooth limbs high as brush may reach,
no branch bereft of crusted flags,
with subtle swirl from cotton rags.

And in the farthest corners, birds,
bullfinches, peering at her words:
'Grandad in Garden, 83',
and her initials, 'D.S.T.'

- - -
Tomorrow: colours.

Thank you, Fliss. Alas I failed to find a publisher, though it very nearly found favour with Penguin; they feared that an anthology on a single theme "even that which is dominating us today" would have "a tough time in the market place" - and hoped I would find somebody "braver" than themselves. I didn't - hence the website.
My 'model' had been Paul Dehn's book "Quake, Quake, Quake - A Leaden Treasury of English Verse", a parody anthology, which had skewered the ghastliness of nuclear weapons, way back in the old, cold war.
It remains a treasure for which it is worthwhile looking out.
I enjoyed your family portrait. Ekphrastic poetry is, I believe, much underrated and I really enjoy attempting it.

Parallels
 

revision:
Parallels

flee to the woods
and bark the trees
with the tongue—what
better dagger
than one which wags
—a fountain pen
poking points with
perseverance—
woodpecker drilling
to find hollows
—nothing—to make
something and paint
oneself silly
little animal
lost in the forest

~ml
June 22, 2021


Parallels

I flee to the woods
and bark the trees
with my tongue

what better dagger
than one which wags

or a fountain pen
poking points
with perseverance

woodpecker drilling
to find hollows
—nothing

to make something
and paint myself silly

little animal
lost in the forest

~ml
May 19, 2009

🍓🍓🍓

Hello poetry people,

You're welcome, Nigel. Yes, the mainstream publishing houses like to play safe on the whole. Did you consider self-publishing? There are a few options in that field. I once copyedited a book of WW1 poems, one of my favourite publishing jobs to date, quite early on in my career.

Thanks for enjoying the portrait and I'll take a look at the parody anthology soon.

- - -
mignon, thanks very much for posting this. It's always good to escape to the woods. I like everything about the poem, but my highlights are the woodpecker and the little animal, as you might expect.

Well, what am I doing? I'm still working towards a deadline today. So here's an old ode, something commissioned in 2015. There's quite a lot of colour in it, I suppose. Esmeralda was once thought to be female, but things change. This Bird Island is in the Seychelles archipelago.


Ode on Bird Island

A pocketful of paradise, bird isle,
00immersed in cyan seas, beset with shoals
of spot trevally crossing coral pile,
00electric-blue carangue on food patrols.
Ashore, brown bar-tailed godwits chirp a'ights,
00while speckled plovers skate the slick white sands
0000and turnstones probe for periwinkle treats;
then ak, ker-ak! a sooty flock alights
00on coco-palms within the forest lands
0000of vines and orchids, pink rain lily streets.

Paean to conservation, ground doves sing
00as white-tailed tropicbirds may safely nest
among the roots of she-oak trees or wing
00the Seychelles skies in smart tailcoat and vest.
How Esmeralda smiles and nods his head
00in rapt approval as his friends are tracked
0000and granted haven beach to lay their eggs;
for all long winter, in a tunnelled bed
00a tiny turtle leaps from shell fresh cracked
0000and scrambles seaward, flapping arms and legs.

🐢🐢🐢

Tomorrow: tbc. (Am shaking at the moment; need Fortisip.)

Hello to Fliss
 

Dear Fliss,

I've been admiring your poems, but haven't had the energy to comment, nor to post my heart on a porcelain plate, but things change and I might.

Thanks for commenting on Permanet Visitor. Very shortly after I wrote it, the story of its total opposite was too fabulous to boil down to a poem. By this, I mean that the young man in the poem, and his partner, are among my most favorite and loved, now family members. My only curiosity about this piece is the form it took--I don't know what to think of it.

Esmeralda is so close to Esperanza. One is hope, the other one is the color of hope.. Have you heard a singer, Garou?

More later.
Thank you for adding cheer to the boards,
~mignon

❤️❤️❤️

Dear mignon,

Thanks very much for admiring the poems; I'm sorry you're lacking in energy. Yes, things change; and I think you know that if you do post your heart you're in a safe space here (i.e., with me).

You're welcome for my comment on your poem. How interesting that things changed so soon after you wrote it. Would you consider writing a second part? I like the form you chose.

Yes, Esmeralda, Esperanza; well, now I feel like writing a song. I haven't heard Garou, so I'll google later. It's my pleasure to add cheer :-)

This evening, I'm posting the first villanelle I attempted, in the voice of Shropshire sheep. From 2013, this was one in a collection of poems I composed after Grandad Teague died. I went on a sort of tour in my mind of places where we'd been together; and somehow, it comforted me.


Song of Sheep

We tread our small yet steadfast ways,
on paths to guide all travelling souls,
through freshening rains and golden rays.

While hilltops bathe in sundew haze,
or round the valleys thunder tolls,
we tread our small yet steadfast ways.

Our bracken moors sound joyful neighs,
of trotting ponies, dancing foals,
through freshening rains and golden rays.

Where picnic parties meet our gaze,
and offer crumbs from fresh bread rolls,
we tread our small yet steadfast ways.

In oaken shade we slow to graze,
as ramblers pass in happy strolls,
through freshening rains and golden rays.

Across this shire our thanks we raise,
with flags festooning fields and knolls;
we tread our small yet steadfast ways,
through freshening rains and golden rays.

🐑🐑🐑

Tomorrow: something inspired by John Isbell's latest poem.

In the spirit of the thread, I hope, and inspired by Fliss's latest, I will now go ahead and post a sheep poem that once graced these boards sometime around 2019. It's been edited lightly since. I'm not sure that I wear my heart on my sleeve in it, but I do describe my approach to schoolwork aged about eleven, in Thanet.

John


Better Grass

The sheep are in the meadow at attention.
Beneath a low cloud, rain comes glistening
from Heaven onto hedge and sheep and grass
like some slow punishment. The sheep do not
appear to notice or to care. A clump
of rain-wet sheep – an archipelago
of those who’ve wandered off to where the grass
has spoken to them – this is pretty much
how sheep appear to live. And yet, a lamb
bolts leggily across the grass as if
it danced on flowers and the sun were out,
and life were worth the living. Could it be
that we might see the sheep stir into life
like this young lamb – that in the rain-swept field
there might be celebration? I do not
hold out much hope. And so, the heart constricts,
to see that lamb’s tomorrow – all the days
it will not frisk or frolic, all the hours
in which the rain will win and with its fellows
it will graze on and endure. And when I think
of my time upside-down on the brown couch
translating Greek, of days when I was young,
I feel that rain upon my shoulders – all
the weight of things – and I am moved to bow
my head to graze, my eyes to better grass.

🍓🍓🍓

This is great, John. I do emember it because on first sight I liked 'upside-down on the brown couch' particularly; and I love sheep, of course. You describe them so well here, and the contrast between sheep and lamb is very well drawn.

Here's my poem inspired by yours on Met. It takes the 'planet' theme and goes a bit loopy with it, one might say. Well, I'm in mourning for lovely Zelda at the moment (see Art) and in need of some cheering up.

I don't think this is quite right for the planet prompt thread, but I'm working on a poem about the eclipse of '99 at the moment.


Planet F.

A mini-Earth, a tiny blue/green dot
of little islands in a crystal sea
some might dismiss as just a bobble-blot,
but sharp observers scrutinise with glee.

A trip to F. requires a certain craft
to enter through the force field, which is firm;
but if one's ship is friendly, funny, daft,
one may succeed and thrive here for a term.

The landing pad is on the Greeting Isle;
arrivals travel to the Isle of Coo
aboard the billow-birds of steam and smile
and soothing song of Woo-be-do-be-do!

Coo Isle is forests, woods, savanna, beach,
accommodations made of wood and cool,
the trees are fruity, plum and pear and peach,
and everybody has a private pool.

The other isles are accessed via flight:
and once again, one boards a billow-bird,
resplendent in their rainbow, black to white,
as practical as they might seem absurd.

It's hard to leave; so don't! Enjoy your space
and mingle with the fanciful and fun;
though close to Earth, this is a different place
within the world, five f-thoms from the sun.

🦢🦢🦢

Tomorrow: something about the Sun?

Hi Fliss,

I'm glad you liked my sheep poem! Yes, the brown couch. I still recall it, it belonged to the retired father-in-law of our prep school headmaster, who served us a glass of squash and a biscuit for our Greek classes, long ago. We were two in number. I think your poem is splendid, and am moved to be reminded of how I'd thought the Eratosphere might be something along these lines, back in 2017 when a friend invited me to join. Planets, eh? Your planet seems worth a visit! What a splendid poem to dash off in an afternoon.

I am now going to look for my old Penelope poem, inspired by mignon. Ah, here it is!

Regards,
John


As Close as Tails on Coins

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
it says in Wordsworth’s “Intimations” ode.
I’m in bed writing, and before too long
I’ll sleep, just as the poet said. We close
our eyes and leave the ordered shores of reason –
as surely as the ever-busy day
gives way to night, as land gives way to sea,
unplumbed and pathless, and our fragile bark
drifts with the lunar tide like any leaf.

Or maybe sleep is like a field of some
unseen crop which we may yet remember
when we reach it; while the wind, that blows
where it listeth, comes from there to us
as we grow sleepy, touching eye and cheek,
stirring the mind to a new train of thought.

For sleep is close – as close as tails on coins,
or what we view in mirrors when our hands
rest on them. And my wife is sleeping now
beside me, even breathed, a little restive
as I write on. And yet, she is as far
from waking as a fish that never once
comes up for air, as far as truth from fiction.
All that we dreamt comes undone, writes Octavio
Paz. But like Penelope, we do it over.

1807

 

🍓🍓🍓

It's a great poem, John. I didn't have the opportunity to learn Greek during my school years, complete with squash and biscuit, lol.

Thanks for enjoying my poem; I hadn't thought about the 'sphere in connection with it. Yes, Planet F mght not be entirely without attractions, not least the billow-birds :>)

I enjoyed reading your latest poem too. I know the ode by Wordsworth and I like your description of embarking on sleep. S2 is also strong and I love 'close as tails on coins' in S3. It's nice you include Mrs I, and I like the Octavio quotation and reference to Penelope at the end.

The poem about the sun turned out to be a little thing, so I'm posting one of my dream-poems too. It's from my dream diary :-)


If Sun be faith, my sun is Coo,
my little colombine,
who often likes to cheer, 'Woo-hoo!'
in tones that sound divine.

She neither burns nor freezes me –
my heart is always warm;
she smiles and shines tenaciously
through wind and rain and storm.

And in my darkest hours of pain,
she shimmers at my side
to soothe my ills, my anxious brain,
bright beaked and twinkly eyed.

🕊🕊🕊

Boing

I wake up
in bed

and find my legs
have been replaced
with large yellow rubbery constructions,
ending in orange duck-feet.

I'm puzzled,
but really rather pleased;
the rubber-legs are heavy
yet very flexible
and I think
I might be able
to boing.

I get out of bed
and boing head first
into a wheelie bin.

😵 ...woken by pseudo-sensation of headbang.

- - -
Tomorrow: another dream-poem.

Lendings

i am on the landing
in the family home.

I glance out of the window
and spot
John Lennon
making his way
across the field.

He's wearing his white suit
but no shoes
and his hair
hangs over his face.

He enters the garden
through a hedge
and continues walking
towards the greenhouse.

I really want to meet
John Lennon,
so I rush down the stairs
and try to find my slippers
so I can go outside.

Where are they?
There they are,
under the table
in the lounge.

I'm pleased.
I shout:
SLIPPERS!
SLIPPERS!
SLIP-

😵 ...woken by silent shouting,

Tomorrow: bird-themed sonnet.

Hi Fliss,

I think I particularly enjoy your rhymed poetry, so your sun piece does not sail under my radar. I like it. Thank you for your comments on Penelope et al; I like our chats as well. One thing you do in your free verse that I suspect would be harder in meter is this splendid thing:

I really want to meet
John Lennon,

which reminds me a bit of this old thing for some reason:

The Boston Evening Transcript
BY T. S. ELIOT

The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.

When evening quickens faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript."

Regards,
John

🍹🍪

That's squash and a biscuit for you, John. Yes, it's actually a cocktail, but you can have a non-alcoholic concoction if you wish :-)

I think most people prefer the rhymed stuff. I certainly enjoy writing it more than attempting blank verse, which always feels unfinished to me. That's odd, because I seldom feel that way about other poets' non-met. Ho hum.

You're welcome for my comments; I think chatting is good, as it can spark extra ideas. I'm glad you like the bit about John Lennon, lol. I have quite a selection of dream-poems :-)

Here's the sonnet I mentioned. It's a summary sonnet, so possibly rather compact, although I do flesh out the themes in other work within a series. It's about a relationship between N, 22, and a solicitor at the law firm where they both work, who is quite a lot older. The Promenade is a posh part of town; the aviation age occurs in Shropshire, his home county.


To take flight

His love, 'If love,' he sighed, had 'hatched too quick',
00for he'd prefer us walled in stony shell
designed to shatter slowly, silent, slick –
00matured contentment in a measured cell.
I kept from fledging, though I longed for flight
00above the promenade of suits and heels
where he feared frowns and whispers might alight
00to spike his smooth repute, career ideals.
Once swept from threats of scandal and disgrace,
00he let us wanderlust in sunset skies
with wings spread warmly, awe upon his face
00for caution spurned, then joy on its demise.
Just seven days, our aviator age;
he bound us safe for home, stuffed in a cage.

🐣🐣🐣

I'm rushing off now as an aunt needs a chat, but shall be back at some stage. Tomorrow: lyrics. I think :-)

Hi Fliss,

Just a quick note to say the ending is brutal, particularly perhaps for someone who spent the last four years in a suburb of McAllen, Texas. It’s a striking ending.

Thanks, John;

Yes, I needed striking and brutal and I'm glad this comes across. Thanks for reading the poem :-)

🌞🌞🌞

Now I'm taking a trip, specifically to the Scilly Isles, posting the first poem in the Scilly series. It's spoken, cha-cha-CHING, with a pause at the end of each even line. It's very much a Planet F. poem.

Performance notes: I perform this myself, using my natural voice for narration, super-clear high-pitched tone for Coo, Gloucestershire accent for FT, and something strident for the mossops. The problem is, I can't stop laughing. Coo & Co offices are my studio room.

There's a photo of the mossops here :-)


St Mary's Mossops

In the Coo & Co offices, up in the trees,
00there are shelves of quite serious books,
but above Aristotle, Plato, Sophocles,
00stand some knick-knacks in crannies and nooks.

'Who be these?' Coo asked FT, one midsummer morn,
00of a collection of seven small folks,
colours ranging from pale pink to bright bean to corn,
00eyes egg white-esque with squinty black yolks.

'Well, dear Coo,' FT answered, her own eyes aglow,
00'These be mossops, from St Mary's Isle –
they cost three-pounds-and-fifty, expensive I know;
00I was charmed by their fabulous style.'

'As am I,' chirped the colombine, twirling a tad,
00'And moreover, they seem super-sleek.'
'Super-sleek, super-stylish,' FT thought to add,
00as the mossops stood proud in their clique.

'This is Rose Quartz, I think.' FT pointed top right,
00and her finger brushed one mossop's head,
just a second of contact, her touch very light,
00but the mossop shrieked slightly and said:

'Yes it's true, we are St Mary's mossops, are we,
00and we wish to embark on a trip,
to the far Isles of Scilly with Coo and FT,
00so let's all board this glorious ship!'

A svelte sea ship appeared at the window of Coo's
00and the mossops jumped onto the deck,
'Shall we sail?' mused FT. 'I do fancy a cruise,'
00Coo replied, 'and the ship looks high tech!'

So they sailed through the trees to the fields to the coast,
00reaching Cornwall at just past midday.
'Are we there yet?' Coo asked; FT answered, 'Almost!'
00Then, 'We're here!' cheered the mossops. 'Hooray!'

🌴🌴🌴

Tomorrow: who knows?