symbolism rules

Retirement

Palm trees anticipate the arc
of your body, its return to the earth.
Instead of the ocean, the reflection
of pavement, the mirrors in your apartment
that once focused only on your face.
You cannot discard unwanted limbs
on the beach. You are convinced blood
is the solvent of skin, and your heart
is continually forcing high tide

jason fraley


I have found a few sites which give daily doses of poetry and I am trying to remember to visit them on a daily basis in the hope that at least something might filter through by osmosis. I think it must be true that the more exposure you get to any art form, the more scope for appreciation - you're going to find some stuff you quite like!

The above example was on today's verse daily. I'm not ready to retire yet but I can already connect with the inevitability of physical ageing. I liked the way he wove the vision of a dream retirement by the ocean with the reality of the decrepitude of old age.

Mind you, it's a bit pessimistic. I hope to avoid this condition when my day comes - look after yerself, Jason! I just like the poem.

postscript: I refer to its symbolism. I get confused between the terms: metaphor, allegory, simile etc. .... I hope that symbolism is a more embracing term, though I suspect now that simile is the one I'm after.

tom soup prompt

school
bell
silent
solitude
the blue embracing
twilight nears, the last child has flown


a tom soup prompt is no real prompt at all, just some spare time contemplating my photoblog for inspiration.

I thought I'd try out another fibonacci sequence as the first one looked a bit lonely in the pile.

unlocking the poet within

I have at last received the book, The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry. I'm going to attempt to use this to Unlock the Poet Within.

Stephen Fry is an educated and cultured, english comic actor, it may just say actor on his passport as he is probably most famous for playing Oscar Wilde in the biopic Wilde. He appears on telly quite a bit in the UK, either teamed with old mucker Hugh Laurie of USA's House fame, as a main character in the various Blackadder series, and as quiz master in the celebrity game show QI. Basically, he's a big, gay, funny actor bloke who seems to know a fair bit and explains it well, so... here we are.

what's a meta for?

Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Sylvia Plath


this is an excellent poem! only the second from Sylvia Plath and already I'm intrigued by how she came to take her own life. It doesn't seem to be the writing of a failing person, more a fighter, someone I'd expect to be a survivor! maybe she concluded life was pointless, futile, boring...

obviously I have no first hand experience of her condition but I have been around and heard, and overheard, women tell of the discomforts of carrying child. would they have chosen the same expressions as Plath? there's layers of meaning in those lines.

one deep breath prompt

the prompt this week at one deep breath is the Fib - not, as I first thought, a falsehood but a variation on the 5-7-5 form. It's a 1-1-2-3-5-8 form instead, which is a mathematical sequence known as fibonacci. I have to confess to being a bit number blind even though I used to do okay in maths. I struggle to remember my own phone number! Certain things have natural appeal - like the thirds rule and certain ratios - but I don't get much from fibonacci, okay I'm looking at it and thinking yeah, and....? I think it's like one of those odd looking babies only a mother could love... anyway, that doesn't mean I can't try a poem. :o)

I was out on my bike this weekend and took this photo. I've chosen to write my Fib around it.



tall
blooms
blood red
upon gold
such bounty can't hide
my brother cut down in anger



I was fascinated and delighted with Susan's post on the above theme and her quest with haiku on designs in nature - the light bulb in my head came on!

Over the past two weeks I have been collating all the haiku I've written for the sole purpose of posting something/anything on this blog. Well, I thought I'd gathered them all in but now I realise there was one that escaped, it hiding away, forgotten, on the photoblog. I'd just started using the camera and was snapping anything that moved and a lot more that didn't.

Anyway, I found myself in the park, staring up into the branches of this big London Plane and seeing fractals - nature's little growing patterns!




twigs sprout from branches
sons in their father's image
grand family tree

gadzooks, thou art a codfish, sir.

shock! horror! probe! I've noticed the date and it's incredible how time flies in 2006. it calls for some off-the-cuff swamp verse from your very own Deputy Doggerel...

Solstice Schmolstice

how can the nights be drawing in
when summer's just begun?
i haven't got the bike out yet!
i'm missing out on fun

write words writing club prompt

Jo (Jodi) of the Write Words Writing Club has offered a prompt, the first line of a poem or perhaps a poem title; Life Dwells On The Tip Of A Teardrop.

It's an interesting prompt and, never wanting to miss an opportunity, I've flexed my literary muscles and cracked my poetic knuckles to try and come up with something appropriate.



Life Dwells On The Tip Of A Teardrop

Life dwells on the tip of a teardrop
a crystal world turned upside down
lashed to the mast, the salty ocean
deep, profound yet - emotionally ambigious
life gives you many masters, many lessons learned
your provenance is a mystery, which is it?!
compassion, hurt, laughter, or grief - or the grit
that creates a pearl? a sacrificial seep
suspended in tension, like the hanged man
like an inverted balloon, fighting gravity's pull
procrastination before the inevitable fall
life dwells on the tip of a teardrop
for a moment, then is no more.

sunday scribbling prompt

I'm not sure Sunday Scribbling is about poetry though I don't see why not. This is my modus operandi for sunday scribbling:

first reaction is wtf am I going to write about that?
then I take several deep breaths and tell myself it doesn't matter if I don't do one every week...
then I come up with one reasonably viable idea
then the dominoes begin to topple
at this stage I have to fire up word and type in a list of ideas else I will surely forget
(if the prompt is published on thursday or friday and I'm at work, I'll jot them down on a piece of paper. sometimes I think this is a better way to go.)
then I stare at the list a lot looking for the story...

this sunday, with poems on my mind, the list resembled a poem so I stuck my neck on the block and arranged some lines as best I could. I know you can't get away with writing a great poem off the cuff - it needs to be crafted - but I can always return and improve it later.

This week's Sunday Scribbling prompt is Bed.


I've Made My Bed and Now I Must Lie In It

Clean cool sheets and pillow cases
Newly laundered and freshly scented
A snap induced billow, marvelling at the graceful descent
We try to do hospital corners, she is better than me
She calls mine abattoir corners but I tell her
In the dark no one will see

A warm bath before and the window slightly ajar
Sleep nude, naked as the day we were born
Often this is the only opportunity we have
A cool body induces a gentle repose, and in bed
There's no need for silly clothes and as I've said
In the dark no one will see

what about your voice?

I'm thinking now that poetry is more an oral art - a tradition, if you like. Sure, we write it down and it gets copied out, but for convenience and because that's what literate societies do. I'm thinking that a poem must be written with a voice, preferably the poet's own!

This may seem like a statement of the bleeding obvious but let me tell you I think this is where I've gone wrong!

Firstly, seeing poems laid out can appear as flat as the paper they're written on. Hearing them read out gives them an unexpected liveliness. Is this the music that Clive James was on about?

Secondly, when composing a verse I've been concerned that it appears to look like a poem on the page and not just a paragraph of flowery prose, cut up in pleasing lengths and stacked one upon the other - maybe with a few rhymes and alliteration. I've not paid any attention to my own voice! It's someone else's voice - or no one else's voice, which must be worse.

I have to discover my voice - like Hegley, Zephaniah, and Plath...

...or Neruda. See, even if I was Pablo Neruda's equal, I shouldn't try to speak with his voice. It would be silly, I'd feel self-conscious and it wouldn't sound pretty at all.



The Queen

I have named you queen.
There are taller than you, taller.
There are purer than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.
But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
No one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
At the carpet of red gold
That you tread as you pass,
The nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
Only you and I, my love,
Listen to me.

Pablo Neruda

poetry thursday prompt #1

Poetry Thursday is a good place for me to experience poetry. for a poet numpty, like me, the more exposure to poetry, the less alien the stuff seems and, it follows, the more you get to appreciate it as expression.

this week's prompt is a suggestion to share some favourite poetry. this is more difficult than it seems as I'm only setting out on the journey but I did a bit of thinking and googling and, naturally, the BBC came up with an interesting site!

some time back, I remember an interview with writer and broadcaster Clive James on the occasion of his new book of poems. he was asked ''what makes a poem?''

unfortunately, I can't remember his answer.

no, I recall he said the difference between lyrics and poetry was that lyrics required music (duh?) whereas poetry came with its own music. (ah-hhhhha!) so, I'm thinking the reading - and the way it's read - is all important.

Now this BBC site Poetry Out Loud is ideal as it features recordings of some well-known poets reading their own work. How cool is that?!

I've always had a soft spot for comic verse; it's probably the most accessible genre.

I like John Hegley. One of his was included on the site (you need Realplayer which is unfortunately the worst media player on earth - sorry). I hope you can listen to it because I found it useful in understanding the phrasing and emphasis. I mean, I read it first and listened later and found that Hegley read it far better than I did. Well, he would - he wrote it!

On the Booze (listen here)

My dad very rarely drank
but one time when he did
my mother blew her lid rather
and leaving the lather
and the sink
she said you stink
you stink of drink
you've tried to hide it with a peppermint
but I don't think it's done the job
because you blinking stink Bob
it's obnoxious
let some air through
open the windows will you
and the door.
He had had two halves of lager
Three days before.

Copyright: John Hegley.

poetry thursday prompt #2

Benjamin Zephaniah's Miss World was interesting to hear because I'd read it as a full on rant but listen to Benjamin's reading and there's quite a carribean lilt to it. It reminded me of a skipping song.


Miss World (listen here)

Beauty is about how you behold
more than silver more than gold
if I say I am beautiful
it means beauty is accessible,
beauty is about how you greet
de everyday people dat you meet
you are beautiful so all rejoice
your beauty is a natural choice.

My sister is a beautiful girl
she don't want to be Miss World
her value is not prize money
more value than a pearl
my sister is a beautiful girl
human delight
she could be out of sight but she would rather stay and fight.

Her legs are firm and strong
best for self-defence
my sister kicks like wildfire
so cause her no grievance
she won't walk the platform
to upsex people's lust
and you can't get the number of her height, age or bust,
she don't want to go to the market
to be viewed like a slave
the viewing time is over
put de judge in the grave,
she don't need to go to the market
'cause she's already won
beauty contest no contest
she don't need to run.

I talk 'bout people in society who judge you by your looks, den,
give you a number dat is written in a book, and, lustful eyes
from all around come to look at you, and, day judge your lifetime
by a quick interview.

My sister is a beautiful girl
But she don't want to be Miss World
her personality cannot be rewarded by no judge or earl.

My sister is a beautiful girl
She needs no contest
and you can't put her with another judging who's the best.
And you cannot judge my sister's heart
By looking at her breasts.

Copyright: Benjamin Zephaniah.


Final choice is Sylvia Plath's Lady Lazarus. I'd first read the blurb about how she took her life four months later and I was expecting some whimpering verse - but no! It's punchy, forthright and quite menacing I thought.

Lady Lazarus (listen here)


It's a long poem so please just follow the link and listen - it's powerful stuff!


I've noticed that all three choices use sound rhymes - Hegley for comic effect, Benjamen gives it a song-like beat and Plath, subtler than the other two, kind of traps and wraps you up with them.

what is a poem, exactly?

...or what it is not?

This is probably the first question on my mind. Like, can you make a cullen skink without knowing what it is or what it's not? Here is a recipe...

Cullen Skink

A pound of plump white fish, smoked
haddock or cod fillet, plain not dyed
placed inside a shallow dish, covered
with whole fresh milk, one pint
the fish, cooked, removed and flaked
an onion, chopped, takes its place
with sliced potatoes, waxy and new
and once all done, the fish in too
and ground black pepper to taste.


someone once told me;

''Art is Everything and Anything; drop an egg and it's an accident, but take a picture of it and it's Art!''

In the end we decided it must not be a case of there being Art and non-Art but good Art and bad Art. then we thought some more and couldn't think who would be so conceited as to judge which was what kind, so we said it must surely be a case of popular Art and unpopular Art, and the people must decide.

so, Art isn't so much about production as perception. how do you see it?


i'm reminded of the saying that a good photographer never exhibits his bad photos... :D


more later.

one deep breath prompt

One Deep Breath week 2 prompt: ''moonstruck''

1

beneath the limelight
a hundred pepper moths jive
through valerian blooms

2

night cloud sailing
over the grey spectral sea
of tranquillity





i went out to observe - no images, maybe later. i didn't appreciate how poetry can enlighten you to all sorts of things. this week i learned to recognise peppered moths (sometimes called ''salt and pepper'' moths) and the valerian flower. valerian was used in ancient times to induce drowsiness and as a remedy for insomnia. it has a strong odour - this may explain the moths' nocturnal attraction - which can be overpowering when cut and placed in a vase indoors.

poetry thursday prompt

Poetry Thursday's inspirational prompt this week is ''eavesdropping'' - something that goes hand in glove with people watching, something a lot of us do.

I rarely use the bus thesedays but I used to a lot - this is a fictional memory from long ago.


Wendy is getting wed again.

Ivy and Dorothy, their bobbing heads
this way and that, as they chat
Two little balls of grey-white fluff,
dandelion clocks, the end of time
delicate and perfect
I want to open the window
And watch their seeds blow
to the back of the bus…

Wendy is getting wed again
He is such a nice chap
He’s better than the last one
John has to mend her tap

It is dripping day and night
It keeps them all awake
We have to save the water now
It is such a lovely cake

The recipe was in the mag
It calls for too much egg
It did not need three of them
The doctor’s seen her leg

He is not as nice as Dr Fee
Caused her too much stress
She had to go up on the bus
She has chose a lovely dress...

one deep breath prompt

more sites, more inspiration...

one deep breath - click on the button above - is a haiku prompt which optionally suggests combining the theme with a bit of walking and photography. haiku, walking and photography! how could I not participate?

this week's prompt is ''Walking in Nature''

''Go for a nature walk, take your camera along (if you like) and a notebook. Find some inspiration, write a haiku, take a photograph... Enjoy the beauty of your surroundings. Take time to notice little details. Soak it all in and relax for a few moments...''

so that's what I do! I've used a few recent Soup pics for the purpose: dorothy & ivy and the dandelion

ivy, verdant spears
piercing forlorn hearts of stone
life and death as one




field of lowly crowns
each upon a dandy’s head
knaves who would be kings

what should a poem be about?

So I'm sitting here eating my lunch and contemplating poetry and it dawns on me that i can't think of a single poem right now which doesn't evoke either a feeling of melancholy or amusement. Surely, I think, you can write a verse about anything at all! It's what I believe about photography; there is a way of taking a photo which doesn't rely on the interestingness of the subject.

I reach inside my lunchbox and take out an orange...


ORANGE

What can I tell you about my orange?
Well
It’s round!
About the size of a cricket ball
And when I playfully toss it
It weighs roughly the same
But its skin is not like that ball!
But subtlety dimpled, like cellulite
Or an aroused scrotum
But when I squeeze it yields
Ever so slightly but firmly
But I am afraid to squeeze it harder
As I am at work right now
And I don’t have a spare shirt.

A poet sighed, nothing rhymes with orange
And I replied, what about blancmange?
And they explain why that’s adsurd and why
Poems are best not seen but heard.

write words writing club prompt

inspired by the picture prompt #12 at write words writing club



front row vacant seats
centre stage the dawn still plays
to an empty house



and this is photo #9... inspires a bit of a tongue-in-cheek haiku.


finally the light!
but around the bend awaits
another tunnel

this picture I liked the best, it is photo prompt #11.

Btw, I hear it's ascension day today! I don't know if it's a feast day but have a good day if you're christian - and if you're not, have a good day anyway.

so, it's an old theme but a good one and risking being hypocritical I do try to be more charitable these days. Hey, I'm not hinting about being charitable about my poem neither, but towards a much more worthy cause. ;o) Rightio...




this man is my son!

this man is my son!

so when you see him again
please look him in the eye
and tell him, I love him
because even if it isn't him
it could be!
for every man was once someone's child.

as I say, poetry is a tougher challenge but I've had a go - the time passed so quickly so I must have had fun. It's sort of on the same theme as the haiku because once you get a notion in your mind it's hard to think of something else and the verse was hard enough.





the dawn still performs to an empty house

she rises soundless in this dark hour
our mother, mindful of her children's needs
as we sleep soundly, unaware
she moves with grace to a timeless decree
set by her own hands
she tends to the fire, turns up the light
she folds away the blanket of night
and when we stir from our protective rest
she's there, with the world, welcoming

will we always cherish our mothers work?
even when we aren't there to see
and she works alone
for her children