Posted by: writingwitch2013 | November 30, 2014

As the mood takes me.

I don’t write poetry.

That’s a phrase you will often here me say. I don’t write good poetry is what I should say. Lately I have been stalked by verse. It pounces when I least expect it, in the car, on a walk, in the shops….

It usually takes me unawares when I don’t have a pen or paper on me, then trying to remember it later is nigh impossible. I have, however, been able to write some down this month, and although it is not perfect I am pleased with it.

Maybe I should just give in, now and then, to penning a little verse. I like the rhythm or sometimes , lack of rhythm, that conveys emotion, vents frustration, or the use of few words were too many words would just be distracting.

I will leave proper poetry to the masters, but may indulge in compiling a little note book of my own, just for my use.

Right now I am wishing that the mood would take me to my novel, so that I can finish it and move on… Or to a batch of short stories that the magazines happily accept for publication.

Do other people have the problem of writing moods being in different forms, or are poets poets, and novelists, novelists?
Maybe I am spreading myself to thinly. Maybe I am just enjoying trying out all the various arts of creative expression.

For now I will carry on writing what and where the mood takes me, for after all, any writing is good practice.

Back to the novel, but I leave you with a few bits of light verse or poems ( however you view them.)

image

A few poems from my favourite poets:

Wendy Cope.

Rondeau Redouble
There are so many kinds of awful men —
One can’t avoid them all. She often said
She’d never make the same mistake again:
She always made a new mistake instead.

The chinless type who made her feel ill-bred;
The practised charmer, less than charming when
He talked about the wife and kids and fled —
There are so many kinds of awful men.

The half-crazed hippy, deeply into Zen,
Whose cryptic homilies she came to dread;
The fervent youth who worshipped Tony Benn —
‘One can’t avoid them all,’ she often said.

The ageing banker, rich and overfed,
Who held forth on the dollar and the yen —
Though there were many more mistakes ahead,
She’d never make the same mistake again.

The budding poet, scribbling in his den
Odes not to her but to his pussy, Fred;
The drunk who fell asleep at nine or ten —
She always made a new mistake instead.

And so the gambler was at least unwed
And didn’t preach or sneer or wield a pen
Or hoard his wealth or take the Scotch to bed.
She’d lived and learned and lived and learned but then
There are so many kinds.

Loss

The day he moved out was terrible –
That evening she went through hell.
His absence wasn’t a problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.

Bloody Men

“Bloody men are like bloody buses —
You wait for about a year
And as soon as one approaches your stop
Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators,
Offering you a ride.
You’re trying to read the destinations,
You haven’t much time to decide.

If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.
Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze
While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by
And the minutes, the hours, the days.”

More of my favourite poems from my youth…
Mum and dad used to read to me.

Tarantella

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn’t got a penny,
And who weren’t paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in–
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.

By Hilaire Belloc

BRAHN BOOTS
by
Weston & Lee

Our Aunt Hanna’s passed away,
We ‘ad her funeral today,
And it was a posh affair,
Had to have two p’licemen there!

The ‘earse was luv’ly, all plate glass,
And wot a corfin!… oak and brass!
We’d fah-sands weepin’, flahers galore,
But Jim, our cousin… what d’yer fink ‘e wore?

Why, brahn boots!
I ask yer… brahn boots!
Fancy coming to a funeral
In brahn boots!

I will admit ‘e ‘ad a nice black tie,
Black fingernails and a nice black eye;
But yer can’t see people orf when they die,
In brahn boots!

And Aunt ‘ad been so very good to ‘im,
Done all that any muvver could for ‘im,
And Jim, her son, to show his clars…
Rolls up to make it all a farce,

In brahn boots…
I ask yer… brahn boots!
While all the rest,
Wore decent black and mourning suits.

I’ll own he didn’t seem so gay,
In fact he cried most part the way,
But straight, he reg’lar spoilt our day,
Wiv ‘is brahn boots.

In the graveyard we left Jim,
None of us said much to him,
Yus, we all gave ‘im the bird,
Then by accident we ‘eard…

‘E’d given ‘is black boots to Jim Small,
A bloke wot ‘ad no boots at all,
So p’raps Aunt Hanna doesn’t mind,
She did like people who was good and kind.

But brahn boots!
I ask yer… brahn boots!
Fancy coming to a funeral,
In brahn boots!

And we could ‘ear the neighbours all remark
“What, ‘im chief mourner? Wot a blooming lark!
“Why ‘e looks more like a Bookmaker’s clerk…
In brahn boots!”

That’s why we ‘ad to be so rude to ‘im,
That’s why we never said “Ow do!” to ‘im,
We didn’t know… he didn’t say,
He’d give ‘is other boots away.

But brahn boots!
I ask yer… brahn boots!
While all the rest,
Wore decent black and mourning suits!

But some day up at Heavens gate,
Poor Jim, all nerves, will stand and wait,
’til an angel whispers… “Come in, Mate,
“Where’s yer brahn boots?”

SAM SMALL
(Pick oop tha’ musket)
by
Stanley Holloway

It occurred on the evening before Waterloo,
And troops were lined up on parade,
The Sergeant inspecting ’em he was a terror,
Of whom every man was afraid

All excepting one man who was in the front rank,
A man by the name of Sam Small,
And ‘im and the Sergeant were both ‘daggers drawn’,
They thought ‘nowt’ of each other at all

As Sergeant walked past he was swinging his arms,
And he happened to brush against Sam,
And knocking his musket clean out of his hand,
It fell to the ground with a slam

‘Pick it up’ said Sergeant, abrupt like but cool,
But Sam with a shake of his head,
‘Seeing as tha’ knocked it out of me hand,
P’raps tha’ll pick the thing up instead.

‘Sam, Sam, pick oop tha’ musket,’
The Sergeant exclaimed with a roar,
Sam said ‘Tha’ knocked it doon, reet! then tha’ll pick it oop,
Or it’ll stay where it is on’t floor

The sound of high words very soon reached the ears,
Of an Officer, Lieutenant Bird,
Who says to the Sergeant, ‘Now what’s all this ere?’
And the Sergeant told what had occurred.

‘Sam, Sam, pick up tha’ musket’
Lieutenant exclaimed with some heat,
Sam said, ‘He knocked it down reet! Then he’ll pick it oop,
Or it stays where it is, at me feet

It caused quite a stir when the Captain arrived,
To find out the cause of the trouble,
And every man there, all except Sam,
Was full of excitement and bubble

‘Sam, Sam, pick oop tha’ musket’,
Said Captain for strickness renowned,
Sam said ‘He knocked it doon, Reet! so he’ll pick it up,
Or it stays where it is on’t ground

The same thing occurred when the Major and Colonel,
Both tried to get Sam to see sense,
But when Old Duke ‘O Wellington came into view,
Well the excitement was really quite tense

Up rode the Duke on a loverly white ‘orse,
To find out the cause of the bother,
He looked at the musket and then at Old Sam,
And he talked to Old Sam like a brother

‘Sam, Sam, pick oop tha’ musket’
The Duke said as quiet as could be,
‘Sam, Sam pick oop tha’ musket,
Coom on lad, just to please me

‘Alright Duke,’ said Old Sam, ‘just for thee I’ll oblige,
And to show thee I meant no offence’,
So Sam picked it up, ‘Gradely, lad’ said the Duke,
‘Right-o boys… let battle commence.’

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Categories

%d bloggers like this: