A short poem on the theme of vegetables. Written quickly on 9 November 2013 whilst the Dead Good Poets Radio Show was on the air, so I could submit it to the show.
The Introspective Veggie
I am not a beetroot, although I blush at times
I am not a runner, bean caught for selfish crimes
I am not an iceberg – I melt at soppy songs
I am not a little gem – handle me with tongs
I am not a chunky Swede – not Scandinavian Bjorn
Although I like an artichoke, I don’t like too much corn
I am not a petit-pois, don’t want to pea myself
I just sit and vegetate, sitting on the shelf.
Sunday, 18 May 2014
An American (Bad) Dream
The Theme of this poem was "Snog Marry Avoid". I wrote it on 22 November 2013. For the anti-penultimate (!) line to rhyme, you should really read the poem with a suitable accent.
Snog Marry Avoid - An American Bad Dream
It was so long ago in New York State
That I first saw the face that changed my life.
An instant that would redirect my fate:
I had no plans to make that girl my wife.
Jumping up and down at CBGBs
That’s where we were - the room exuding heat.
The drink would lead us to heebie-jeebies
But that was after we’d danced off our feet.
A smile, a look, we danced and moved nearer
Perspiring like a Central Park jogger.
Her aim, like mine, could not be much clearer
So close, we knew that soon I would snog her.
And there it started, attraction that’s so
Indicative: the exuberance of youth;
When hormones fire, when lips engage, you know
The brain is not in charge, and that’s the truth.
The next few months together, how they sped;
And then, one night as I thought “Time to go”,
She turned to me, as we lay in our bed
“I’m late,” she said, and tears started to flow.
She blubbed, “I’ll bloat and you’ll leave me for good
And I’ll look like an aircraft carrier!”
I felt protective, knowing that I would
Stay by her side, that I would marry her.
There was no child, it was a false alarm
(That’s something I did not know at the time)
So down the aisle we walked, our arms in arm.
A sentence began, but what was my crime?
Her mom, her dad, her drugged up brother, too
Moved in our home with us – not my idea.
My bride took their side, never mine. It’s true.
A marriage of convenience I fear.
Her gambling dad, incessant derision,
The brother arrested, charged with “moider.”
My wife? No life. I made a decision.
I left them all. And now I avoid her.
Snog Marry Avoid - An American Bad Dream
It was so long ago in New York State
That I first saw the face that changed my life.
An instant that would redirect my fate:
I had no plans to make that girl my wife.
Jumping up and down at CBGBs
That’s where we were - the room exuding heat.
The drink would lead us to heebie-jeebies
But that was after we’d danced off our feet.
A smile, a look, we danced and moved nearer
Perspiring like a Central Park jogger.
Her aim, like mine, could not be much clearer
So close, we knew that soon I would snog her.
And there it started, attraction that’s so
Indicative: the exuberance of youth;
When hormones fire, when lips engage, you know
The brain is not in charge, and that’s the truth.
The next few months together, how they sped;
And then, one night as I thought “Time to go”,
She turned to me, as we lay in our bed
“I’m late,” she said, and tears started to flow.
She blubbed, “I’ll bloat and you’ll leave me for good
And I’ll look like an aircraft carrier!”
I felt protective, knowing that I would
Stay by her side, that I would marry her.
There was no child, it was a false alarm
(That’s something I did not know at the time)
So down the aisle we walked, our arms in arm.
A sentence began, but what was my crime?
Her mom, her dad, her drugged up brother, too
Moved in our home with us – not my idea.
My bride took their side, never mine. It’s true.
A marriage of convenience I fear.
Her gambling dad, incessant derision,
The brother arrested, charged with “moider.”
My wife? No life. I made a decision.
I left them all. And now I avoid her.
A Plea, From Me
Now, this poem is on the political side. Biased? Probably, but as it's my poem it can be. It was written on 29 November 2013, setting myself an exercise to write a poem in iambic monometer - i.e. two syllables per line with the emphasis on the second. The first couple of lines came so naturally and before I had decided on a subject, but having these lines in my head I simply had to continue the anti-government theme.
So, to continue the British habit of complaining about the current government (of whatever party), here is
A Plea, From Me
Bog off
You toff.
Your crew
Can too.
I'm sick
Of Nick,
I'm through
With you.
We've toiled,
You've spoiled.
Complain?
In vain.
Welfare?
Don't care.
Our pain,
Your gain.
So Dave,
Please save
Your lies;
We guys
Have heard
Each word.
Truth dies.
Surprise.
Don't need
Your creed
(Conceit,
Deceit)
Up there.
Our prayer?
You greet
Defeat.
That's why,
Dave, I
Once more
Implore:
Bog off
You toff.
Head for
The door.
So, to continue the British habit of complaining about the current government (of whatever party), here is
A Plea, From Me
Bog off You toff.
Your crew
Can too.
I'm sick
Of Nick,
I'm through
With you.
We've toiled,
You've spoiled.
Complain?
In vain.
Welfare?
Don't care.
Our pain,
Your gain.
So Dave,
Please save
Your lies;
We guys
Have heard
Each word.
Truth dies.
Surprise.
Don't need
Your creed
(Conceit,
Deceit)
Up there.
Our prayer?
You greet
Defeat.
That's why,
Dave, I
Once more
Implore:
Bog off
You toff.
Head for
The door.
Hidden Agendas
I don't recall the theme for this one, possibly politics. Written 2 November 2013, it helps if you are familiar with the British TV progammes mentioned - in particular, the character Cameron in the soap "Emmerdale" was a serial killer that remained anonymous and on the loose for some time.
Hidden Agendas
Art reflects life - isn't that what they say?
Well, I was reflecting on this, yesterday -
How sometimes, the shows that I watch on TV
Hide shades of the future - politically.
Not Glenda rejecting the Hollywood scene
Nor Widdecombe dancing - that's not what I mean.
Recall that celebrity? Picture his grin
Light on his feet, a master of spin.
You must remember Lionel Blair?
I think it was Mondays, his show was on air
Whereupon mass distraction had us in grips
"Give us a Clue" - not a word passed his lips.
Comedy, too. Foggy, Compo and Clegg?
No vision, blame culture. He's pulling my leg.
And then, if you would, take a look at the Soaps:
How life seems to be good, then they're dashing our hopes.
One man's action in "Emmerdale" tore lives apart,
But now Cameron's gone. Let's hope life reflects art
Hidden Agendas
Art reflects life - isn't that what they say?
Well, I was reflecting on this, yesterday -
How sometimes, the shows that I watch on TV
Hide shades of the future - politically.
Not Glenda rejecting the Hollywood scene
Nor Widdecombe dancing - that's not what I mean.
Recall that celebrity? Picture his grin
Light on his feet, a master of spin.
You must remember Lionel Blair?
I think it was Mondays, his show was on air
Whereupon mass distraction had us in grips
"Give us a Clue" - not a word passed his lips.
Comedy, too. Foggy, Compo and Clegg?
No vision, blame culture. He's pulling my leg.
And then, if you would, take a look at the Soaps:
How life seems to be good, then they're dashing our hopes.
One man's action in "Emmerdale" tore lives apart,
But now Cameron's gone. Let's hope life reflects art
Origami - All I Know
A theme of Origami, and written on 16 November 2013
Origami - All I Know
Some years ago on ITV
When TV channels numbered three
Robert Harbin had a show
An Origami “how to go.”
I only had a mild int’rest
But someone thought that they’d invest
Their money in his spin-off book.
They gave it me to have a look.
Finding Napkins just collapse
I cut some squares from paper scraps.
First I made a paper hat
It didn’t fit, so that was that.
Bigger sheets are best (I heard).
I’d try and make a flapping bird.
The national dailies! Just the thing –
But sadly most were too right wing.
Last, I learned, with much aplomb
How to make a water bomb
A paper cube to fill and throw.
Origami – all I know.
Origami - All I Know
Some years ago on ITV
When TV channels numbered three
Robert Harbin had a show
An Origami “how to go.”
I only had a mild int’rest
But someone thought that they’d invest
Their money in his spin-off book.
They gave it me to have a look.
Finding Napkins just collapse
I cut some squares from paper scraps.
First I made a paper hat
It didn’t fit, so that was that.
Bigger sheets are best (I heard).
I’d try and make a flapping bird.
The national dailies! Just the thing –
But sadly most were too right wing.
Last, I learned, with much aplomb
How to make a water bomb
A paper cube to fill and throw.
Origami – all I know.
Impressions of Dorian Gray
A theme of Dorian Gray had me stumped for a while, then I thought, why not write about being stumped about Dorian Gray and finding something out about the book? Written 11 December 2013.
Impressions of Dorian Gray
When I heard the theme of this Dead Poets’ show
I thought “Here’s a subject I don’t really know.”
My knowledge of lit’rature’s lit’rally scant –
Perhaps I could give it a different slant.
There’s always the fall-back: TV that I’ve seen.
I seemed to remember a Dorian Green –
Promiscuous cougar who lived Chigwell way?
But try as I might: couldn’t picture her grey.
Not “Birds of a Feather”, then. Where should I look?
I thought, “In the loft. We just might own the book.”
I found it and started to read, reconciled.
You don’t need an Oscar to know that it’s Wilde.
An artist who’s smitten, Sir Henry – a friend
Who spouts without doubting, who talks without end,
Who thinks that his views should be taken as fact.
Yet some, though not all, we may care to extract.
Consider Sir Henry’s ideas set today:
How Z-List celebrities preen as they say,
“Don’t think paparazzi are much of a curse –
Not being talked about’s something that’s worse.”
And then there is Dorian – bit of a wimp –
(Not much of a book if he looked like a chimp)
Who jealously envies his portrait in oils
Predicting a time when he ages and spoils.
My gran had a saying – I’ll paraphrase here –
“What they want is someone to wee in their ear!”
Wake up. Do not fixate on trivial things
As many do now; much worse waits in the wings.
I’ve only read some, but I will persevere.
The prose is descriptive; the characters “queer”.
Forget daytime telly, there’s plenty to do:
My cache in the attic has other books, too.
Impressions of Dorian Gray
When I heard the theme of this Dead Poets’ show
I thought “Here’s a subject I don’t really know.”
My knowledge of lit’rature’s lit’rally scant –
Perhaps I could give it a different slant.
There’s always the fall-back: TV that I’ve seen.
I seemed to remember a Dorian Green –
Promiscuous cougar who lived Chigwell way?
But try as I might: couldn’t picture her grey.
Not “Birds of a Feather”, then. Where should I look?
I thought, “In the loft. We just might own the book.”
I found it and started to read, reconciled.
You don’t need an Oscar to know that it’s Wilde.
An artist who’s smitten, Sir Henry – a friend
Who spouts without doubting, who talks without end,
Who thinks that his views should be taken as fact.
Yet some, though not all, we may care to extract.
Consider Sir Henry’s ideas set today:
How Z-List celebrities preen as they say,
“Don’t think paparazzi are much of a curse –
Not being talked about’s something that’s worse.”
And then there is Dorian – bit of a wimp –
(Not much of a book if he looked like a chimp)
Who jealously envies his portrait in oils
Predicting a time when he ages and spoils.
My gran had a saying – I’ll paraphrase here –
“What they want is someone to wee in their ear!”
Wake up. Do not fixate on trivial things
As many do now; much worse waits in the wings.
I’ve only read some, but I will persevere.
The prose is descriptive; the characters “queer”.
Forget daytime telly, there’s plenty to do:
My cache in the attic has other books, too.
Associations
Written on the 19 December 2013. The theme for the poem was "numbers", and was not inspired until I woke one morning to see the red LED digits on my old-fashioned digital clock.
Associations
I woke in darkness, turned my head,
Saw Five Eighteen emblazoned red
And as I snuggled down, a thought
Inveigled there: my sleep cut short.
I paid that much for “David Live”;
Such longing – for it to arrive.
I’d never paid that much before
For Bowie at a record store.
That waking thought: It’s odd, I find,
How numbers linger in your mind,
Associate with things of note,
A trigger for an anecdote.
Yes. Numbers, prices of all sorts
Bring special albums to my thoughts
Two Seven Nine. An analogue:
Collecting Mott’s back catalogue.
Now “digital”, we’re all aware,
Means noughts and ones are everywhere.
The CDs, DVDs, TVs
The Internet and MP3s
The smartphones, tablets that we use,
The eBooks, laptops that we choose;
They all have numbers at their source –
The software. Makes them run, of course.
I wonder if one day I’ll see
An Eighty Nine and think with glee
That’s what I paid, recall what I’ve
Downloaded, saved on my hard drive.
Associations. Not the same.
Anticipation’s lost the game.
A victim of that God, “Progress”;
A minor thing – but I digress.
Yes, numbers trigger memories;
A calendar, its legacies.
The Twenty-Fifth: it’s Christmas Day.
The Twenty-Third: St George’s Day.
The Fifth: A bonfire lights the sky.
The Thirty-First: the year’s goodbye.
Specific birthdays: twenty-one,
Each passing year, each decade gone.
The date you wed that precious spouse.
The date you parted from that louse!
A loved-one dies: all’s Pre and Post
That date, that year – the least, the most.
These digits, they define our lives.
They’re abstract, yet their ‘fluence drives
Us from that babies’ feeding cup
And will, until our number’s up.
Associations
I woke in darkness, turned my head,
Saw Five Eighteen emblazoned red
And as I snuggled down, a thought
Inveigled there: my sleep cut short.
I paid that much for “David Live”;
Such longing – for it to arrive.
I’d never paid that much before
For Bowie at a record store.
That waking thought: It’s odd, I find,
How numbers linger in your mind,
Associate with things of note,
A trigger for an anecdote.
Yes. Numbers, prices of all sorts
Bring special albums to my thoughts
Two Seven Nine. An analogue:
Collecting Mott’s back catalogue.
Now “digital”, we’re all aware,
Means noughts and ones are everywhere.
The CDs, DVDs, TVs
The Internet and MP3s
The smartphones, tablets that we use,
The eBooks, laptops that we choose;
They all have numbers at their source –
The software. Makes them run, of course.
I wonder if one day I’ll see
An Eighty Nine and think with glee
That’s what I paid, recall what I’ve
Downloaded, saved on my hard drive.
Associations. Not the same.
Anticipation’s lost the game.
A victim of that God, “Progress”;
A minor thing – but I digress.
Yes, numbers trigger memories;
A calendar, its legacies.
The Twenty-Fifth: it’s Christmas Day.
The Twenty-Third: St George’s Day.
The Fifth: A bonfire lights the sky.
The Thirty-First: the year’s goodbye.
Specific birthdays: twenty-one,
Each passing year, each decade gone.
The date you wed that precious spouse.
The date you parted from that louse!
A loved-one dies: all’s Pre and Post
That date, that year – the least, the most.
These digits, they define our lives.
They’re abstract, yet their ‘fluence drives
Us from that babies’ feeding cup
And will, until our number’s up.
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