It's Not What You Say

This was a follow-up to a writing exercise where we had to write a canzonetta. Note the refrain line.

It's Not What You Say
I listen, the music brings pleasure to me;
an aria sung by Domingo,
but as for the words? Well I don’t need to be
au fait with Italian lingo.
It could be the music that Puccini wrote,
it could be the voice, I’ll allow.
Whatever the reason, there’s one thing I note:
It’s not what you say, it is how.

In politics, candidates now realise
that questions are not such a risk.
Diverting the point, unrelated replies,
making jokes, shifting blame, being brisk.
I guess they need training to manage this skill –
an air of trust they can endow;
a paragon hiding a con, if you will:
it’s not what you say, it is how.

The second poem was the result of the exercise itself, with the them "contract". Naturally, I thought of a contract killer. Who wouldn't?

The Contract
He crouched behind the marble wall;
the shadows kept him out of view.
He waited, watching in the mall.
He had no nerves, ‘twas nothing new.
The crowds were held back, yet to come,
still waiting for the op’ning time.
He stroked the gun stock with his thumb.
This killing really was no crime.

The doors slid open. In he came,
the quarry that the man had sought.
He walked in like he had no shame;
the misery that he had brought.
The gunsight centred on his head.
He did not have too long a time;
before too long he would be dead.
This killing really was no crime.

The Joy of Text

Perhaps I should feel a bit guilty at not having posted for a while, but I'm not really. Nevertheless, I need to maintain some degree of momentum  - so here's one I wrote recently for my writing class. It's an example of a Collin's Stanza.

The Joy of Text
The English language is a joy to use
So many words, it’s easy to effuse.
The thesaurus and dictionary thrill,
but sometimes words from these don’t fit the bill.
Embusic, thrumble, droofy – ev’ry one’s
a word that I invented just for fun.

Some words sound like they should be in a song,
Mellifluously flowing ‘cross the tongue.
Severe words like ‘tenebrous’ set the tone,
weird ones like ‘malarkey’ and ‘trombone’.
But nupic, gendenephry – ev’ry one’s
a word that I invented just for fun.

The little words that act as sentence glue
Can help build lines of beauty, clear and true.
Finding complex ones that you can learn’ll
Help you read a scientific journal,
Though diactic nephrulation  – ev’ry one’s
a word that I invented just for fun.

I know that it sounds crazy but it’s true.
I like the sound and feel of words – I do!
Like arblaitry cendric endulation
and predistental teps in agrimation,
Sometimes I give them meanings – ev’ry one’s
a word that I invented just for fun.

Avon Calling

Whilst I appreciate the heritage of William Shakespeare, it would take some time to actually read his books. It's a question of priorities, and I'll let you ascertain if deciphering the Bard's language is likely to be (or not to be) a worthwhile calling for me. This collection of limericks may help if you're still unsure of my decision despite this introduction....


Avon Calling

I find it incredibly hard –
enjoying the works of the Bard.
No matter the sonnet,
won’t waste my time on it;
his plays held in high disregard.

Perhaps it’s the archaic style
that makes reading Shakespeare a trial.
I don’t have the leaning
to work out the meaning.
I leave his books closed with a smile.

If you like him then bully for you.
(I understand some people do.)
You have my respect
for your deep intellect
with all of those books to go through.

Convince me to follow your lead?
Don’t bother as I won’t concede
‘cause I’d find it silly
to spend time on Billy
with so much else out there to read.

Brain Celeb Surgery

A couple of poems on a similar theme. The first is one I wrote about a year ago and have recently rediscovered. It was untitled at the time, and was written as an example of a "huitain".

The second is brand new, and the poetic form is an example of "hymnal measure".

Brain Celeb Surgery

I have a wish - it's not too much.
If I should seem to care who's gay,
If I should buy "Hello!" or such,
If I should start to follow, say
Big Brother, Chelsea, Kyle, André,
Keith Lemon, TOWIE, Dear, what's on?
If I should watch such TV, pray
Commit me, please! My brain has gone.

Afternoon Viewing
Remember how it used to be,
those days of years gone by,
when TV before half-past-three
was something for the eye.

No sitcoms shown incessantly,
(less channels anyway)
before unreal “reality”
when good taste still held sway.

No Kyle or Springer to be seen
an audience that mocks
so what was on the TV screen?
The test-card on the box.

Thought

This poem was in response to a request to write something in the "Pleiades" form. For this, it doesn't have to rhyme, and the syllable count isn't restrictive. The only rules are:

• It should have seven lines.
• Each line starts with the same letter.

You may have gathered from my previous posts that I like my poetry to rhyme and have some semblance of rhythm. So...

 Thought

There are some days you wonder what
the right course is and what is not;
that feeling that you have to prove
the things that you hold true: whilst you've
the facts to hand, you're pressed to move.
Then all at once you know they've got
the brains of slugs - so sod the lot.

Another Day, Another Year

Here is a canzonetta I began in a recent Creative Writing class. The image is something I quickly cobbled together in Xara Photo & Graphic Designer.

 
Another Day, Another Year

The rising sun, the light of dawn
illuminating wisps of vapour trails.
It wasn’t long since they were born,
now grown into misshapen veils.
They won’t last long, they soon will die
but months pass by and more appear:
new generations cross the sky.
Another day, another year.

The soil and pebbles of the earth
are thrust aside by little stems
with small green leaves, and then the birth
of compact buds like tiny gems.
At Nature’s whim their colours fade;
the plants they wither, disappear,
but more will follow, newly made.
Another day, another year.

Relentless, minutes hurry past,
Our mem’ries clinging on like burrs,
We try our best to make them last,
Our lives recording what occurs.
Some fall away and germinate,
Remain when we’re no longer here,
To influence and educate.
Another day, another year.

Writing Poems (Terza Rima)

The following was the result of a ten minute class exercise to write a poem with a nod towards the Terza Rima style. I've done a couple of minor edits since so that it reads better.

Writing Poems

Iambic pentameter. Isn't it great?
Its hurdles: they curdle my creative flow;
Tetrameter's better - the rhythm of eight.

I like playing with words to see where rhymes go;
Don't like their arrangement to sound like a sham.
It helps if I write on a subject I know.

And so, when I'm writing, I don't give a damn.
This counting of syllables gets in the way.
I write what I write: iamb, what iamb?