(So here is the second part of my 'blog treats:' another piece of coursework, this one a selection of five poems written in different styles with the purpose of exploring several different types of poetry and genres. My favourite is almost definitely the first one - so much fun to write and something I'm really pleased with!! As this is being posted as a scheduled post, you'll probably first see this when I'm at the top of a mountain. So whilst you're enjoying reading, I'll be enjoying my week skiing - everyone's happy, perfect!!)
Why I Hate Rhyming Couplets
So why is it that some people always think poetry has
to rhyme?
To me, at least, I always find that trying to is
particularly time
Consuming, especially when it is not the content that
matters but the way
In which the poet delivers exactly what it is they
want to say.
Whatever my inspiration is when I begin to write
Is more often than not a pile of shite,
However at least I seem to have the decency to utilise
free-verse
Than to try to bring in irrelevant words simply to
ease the flow of speech. Universe.
Surely there is more to a literary life than to try to
rhyme every single word
With the line before. I'm sorry, but moon and spoon
just sound far too absurd
And unimaginative to be taken seriously in something
That anyone over the age of twelve has been writing.
So how about from now on, people realise that instead
of trying too hard
On getting their work to rhyme, instead it is better
to be avant-garde
And go with plain old free verse. In short, I'm tired
of making something rhyme just for the sake of it,
So maybe it's better just left alone to save the pain
of irrelevant trips to a thesaurus.
A Suite Of Seasons
I.
Dewy morning's dawn,
Caught by the golden sunlight -
Winter is over.
II.
The sun bakes the earth
Like an everlasting fire:
Throats and plants are parched.
III.
Orange and scarlet
Leaves fall from lofty branches -
Crunchy underfoot.
IV.
Snuggled up inside,
'Baby, it's cold outside' plays:
Christmas is coming.
About An Apple
Once scarlet,
(Blood red, now the colour of
decaying dreams, mottled aesthetic imperfections)
And dewey crisp green
underneath,
(The colour of envy, rage, fresh
new days with fresh new starts)
:
It is the very epitome
of poison,
Innocent as the
beautiful snowy white winter's morning
Yet at the same time,
An image,
A false idol
Of innocence lost
In a garden somewhere.
Aged imperfections on
the surface are the
Only clues to the
symbolic significance of this
Devil's fruit.
A clever disguise.
Go Away.
I am writing this
From my sickbed.
However my head is in far too much pain
To be able to concentrate properly.
Purple Elephants.
Upon Dreaming
A cloud shifts across the inner eye,
Memories of days gone by
To a sunlit day, we say goodbye
And to an abstract place our thoughts must fly.
What is it that lies beyond the realities
Of birds and bees
And worlds and trees?
Eyes close and breathing slows,
Chasing thoughts and fantasies of long ago
Inside the realms of our subconscious thoughts,
The focus of our curiosity is caught.
Will we find a dragon's lair,
Or kingdoms, realms and universes?
A fairytale life is now within reach,
Escaping goblins, giants and witches' curses.
In truth the dream must always end,
With the morning sunrise just around the bend.
Fairies and riches are left behind,
Kept forever inside the mind.
A return is always possible, fear not,
For it is effortless yet to return to that plot.
With thoughts alive until the final breath:
A poignant sweet ecstasy
captured only in death.
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