Good, better, best
Never let it rest
Til your good is better
And your better best
I was here
Here I was
Was I here
Yes I was
You may not yet know it,
But I am a poet.
I wait for my muse to inspire.
I try not to show it,
Hard work, I forgo it,
My verses, not cheap, but not dire
So, call me a fool,
Say I’m not cool,
But of rhyming I never will tire.
It’s my trade’s greatest tool,
And while others may drool,
I’ll do it until I retire.
To be a poet
But never to show it
Is more of a crime
Than engaging with rhyme;
So be not afraid
For when you’re decayed,
From out of your tomb
Brave poppies will bloom.
As I sit with pen in hand
Considering what my muse demands,
Oft an idea comes to mind;
So many thoughts are inter-twined.
First a ruling I must make,
What form shall my poem take?
Rondeau, ode, or Villanelle,
Sonnet, haiku, kyrielle?
I’m excited, I am ready,
I’m inspired, feeling heady.
Ah, when the mot juste does occur,
How joyously my line will purr.
But then my thoughts will always turn
To all those words which I shall spurn.
Those rhymes which never quite will fit,
And where those phrases should be split
Have I spelt that word correctly?
I must check it out directly.
Then the punctuation too;
Comma or colon? Wish I knew.
Capitals to start each line?
Will they add to my design?
Perhaps it’ll prove less nondescript
If I centre all the script.
Can I improve the way it flows?
Better check that I suppose.
Then, of course, must choose a title,
That indeed will be most vital.
Decisions made, about to publish.
Please don’t tell me it’s all RUBBISH.
For a life spent in teaching and schools
Dealing with both genius and fools,
Then without malediction
I can say with conviction,
I never had quite the right tools.
For it took me a long time to find
And the difference was hard to define:
The wise oft were demented,
The dull – vague but contented,
And both could be quite asinine.
Whilst the average student was fine,
‘Twas these others who took up my time.
The norms kept me sane,
While the rest were a pain,
But have given me cause for this rhyme.
Following on from my opening outline of Pastiche Poetry (see my blog of two days ago titled ‘Pastiche Poetry’ ), and my blogs of yesterday ( ‘Pastiche Poetry #2 ) and the day before ( Pastiche Poetry #1 ), here are yet more of my own efforts (you may call them concoctions or confections if you’d rather) which I have based on the well-known opening lines of six different poets . . .
To his Coy Mistress, Andrew Marvell …
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
But I must say, I’m getting bored
With my advances being ignored.
Tyger! Tyger!, William Blake …
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
Just be careful how you go
You’ll set the woodland all aglow.
Lines for a Christmas Card, Hilaire Belloc ...
May all my enemies go to hell,
Ah well, ah well, ah well, ah well.
I told them not to call my bluff
They wouldn’t listen, So that’s just tough.
She Walks in Beauty, Lord Byron …
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
Would that she was as sharp and bright,
Instead she got the booby prize.
Mary Had a Little Lamb, Nursery Rhyme, Sarah Josepha Hale, …
Mary found a little lamb,
She really didn’t know
What on earth to do with it,
Perhaps she’d let it go.
The Owl and the Pussy Cat, Edward Lear …
The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
It wasn’t new, and right on cue,
It ceased to want to float.
Yes, dear, of course,
You’re the source
Of my discourse
And I really do fear
That if you were not near
Then I wouldn’t be here
But you said I can’t write
So to prove you weren’t right
I really just might
Have a go at a poem
‘Cos I”m no protozoan
Much more Leonard Cohen
So I say to you, darling,
I won’t be alarming
Instead I’ll be charming
I’ll write you a ditty
Both witty and gritty
So, what is a ditty?
… Tell the committee
It’s got to be pretty!
Not any old dirge,
Or nonsensical splurge
Would most likely emerge.
And no sort of verse,
Or completely perverse
Could possibly be worse.
… SO, HERE GOES …
It’s a pity
When a ditty
It’s a shame
When a dame
Gets the blame
When a bird
Can’t be heard
And it’s sad
When a lad
Turns out bad
When a boy
Full of joy
Tell me why
You don’t try
All those lies
I can tell
You’re not well
When you yell
It is said
Lose your head
You’ll be dead
Do not sigh
That is why
I will try
You will find
When you’re kind
I won’t mind.
So your disdain I pre-empt,
Can I now be exempt?
With this brave attempt
I’ll risk your contempt.
A Haiku, when written in English, is a 3-lined unrhymed tercet.
A Poetic TERCET is essentially a verse of three-lines all of which end in the same rhyme and often written in iambic pentameter. I print three of my own such Poetic TERCETS below . . .
THE DOUBTING THOMAS
To start each morning he would kneel and pray;
He needed that to get him through the day.
At least his god would let him have his say.
He loved to speak and then have the last word.
His friends, such as they were, called him absurd,
The rest just closed their ears and nothing heard.
God said to Man I’ll give to you a choice,
Believe in me and then with me rejoice,
Or be a Trappist monk and lose your voice.
A Melange, a Miscellany, a Mishmash - of memories, reflections and comment
Journalist|| Poet|| Photographer|| Thinker || Quotes || At a loss for words, i leave myself on paper.
Here and now, with all of it.
A combination of things created and things lived
This is Your Quest - Your Mission to Find Happiness
Dare To Write | Get Wise
Breaking news and thoughtless commentary on the world.
Life past present, thoughts about the future
Sits down with The Two Doctors and .....
Life in words
Asleep at the wheel, but awake in my dreams....
by Sam Allen
Words from the Heart
Writing as a Help to Thought
Writing poetry on the nature of humanity ...and vise versa.
A writer inspired by nature and human nature
short prose, fiction, poetry