Gimme The Noonlight

A riff and a rap on Edith Sitwell’s ‘Façade’

Dame Edith Sitwell ..’ British Poet … 1887 – 1964

gimme the noon-light
gimme a twirl
I’ll come up trumps
my banner unfurl
that Edith was mad
yet made us all glad
with Beelzebub’s story
all hunky-dory
to consider her metre
ashes and saltpetre
anything dare
her nonsensical verse
both a boon and a curse
rapper extraordinaire
meaning averse
step-laddered verse
my first prolonged affair
to do and to dare
over our heads

but like newly weds
always a-bed
whim-led
vital yet dead
while known only to me
the waves of the sea
thrash
crash and smash
on the cusp of the shore
sea-elephant glum
mindless on rum
… but none of them come
forevermore dead
in Beelzebub’s bed

Many recorded versions of Edith Sitwell’s ‘Sir Beelzebub’ (‘Facade’) can be explored on YouTube.
The link below will take you to a version read by Anthony Burgess . . .

CHERITA #3

My third experiment with the poetic form – The CHERITA . . .

Cherita’ is the Malay word for story or tale. A cherita consists of a single stanza of a one-line verse, followed by a two-line verse, and then finishing with a three-line verse. It can be written solo or with up to three partners.  (See the website at:   https://www.thecherita.com for further information).

Rhyming is not required, but here is a version which does include rhyme . . .

‘Boo Hoo’ . . . Photo: WHB 2021

3.

I walked along the towpath

Observing each boat as I passed
Until I reached the very last.

A strange name it had
Some may think it sad
But no, it made me glad.

On Moon-gazing

At such a sight
As the moon at night
So high, so bright
My thoughts take flight
The sheer delight
Of its vibrant white
Its pungent bite
Some day might
Emit its light
To end my plight
Leaving me quite
Without foresight
Indeed contrite

All this I write
So slight
And yet, so recondite

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Cabin Fever

veggie

Cabin Fever

 

At my kitchen chopping board,
While I’m getting dinner ready,
I’m engulfed by cabin fever
As my feelings swirl and eddy.

I set out to cook a meal,
But I’m overcome by whimsy.
I lose all sense of time,
Must have been that double whisky.

I take the smile from a banana,
Avocadian eyes and nose;
The eyeballs are two berries,
Bet you’d never think of those.

Baby carrots for the eyebrows,
Fat spring onions for the locks:
Now I’ve made a veggie’s portrait,
Opportunity, it knocks.

As boredom in my kitchen
Strikes a pensive lock-down note,
So I struggle to amuse,
Try to keep my mind afloat.

A childish occupation?
Well, it helps to pass the time.
As I struggle to stay sane,
I can always find a rhyme.

 

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Time To Linger . . .. A Kyrielle’

photo of old man reading paper

Photo by Joe on Pexels.com

Time To Linger . . ..  A Kyrielle’

 

I carry my age so lightly,
With others help, don’t get me wrong,
I’ll manage to last till midnight.
Give me the time to linger long.

For patience is a true virtue,
And I’ve not knowingly done wrong.
So grant me one last interlude,
Give me the time to linger long.

And when my time at last does come,
My final lucid grateful song
Will say as they whisk me away,
‘Thanks for the time to linger long.’ 

 

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NOTE:

Kyrielle is a French form of rhyming poetry written in quatrains (a stanza consisting of 4 lines), and each quatrain contains a repeating line or phrase as a refrain (usually appearing as the last line of each stanza). Each line within the poem consists of only eight syllables. There is no limit to the amount of stanzas a Kyrielle may have, but three is considered the accepted minimum  . . .  The rhyme pattern is completely up to the poet.

[  From:  http://www.shadowpoetry.com  ]

 

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‘Good, Better, Best’

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From a re-created Victorian Schoolroom Museum, Devon, England … Photo WHB.  ©

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

 

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Poet Manqué

monochrome photography of person holding book

Photo by Martin Péchy on Pexels.com

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.

 

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To Rhyme or Not to Rhyme?

I asked a question of my friend

It did not seem too hard.
I wished to know
What rhymes with word,
Hardly a question for the Bard.
He said he’d heard
Of nerd and turd,
And bird and curd and herd,
And even that rude French word merde
If I wished to be absurd.
I left him to his contemplation,
I could hardly ask for more.
Eight words were all that I could hope
Before he asked me what it’s for.
When I said I was averse
To omit a telling rhyme,
He said a verse was always worse
When forced into a line.
No doubt it’s true,
A poem is killed,
Its passion bled anew,
When thought proceeds without a nudge,
A kiss from me to you.
So, suitably dissuaded from
Forcing further rhyme,
I’ve downed my pen,
I don’t know when,
But, mouse among men,
I I’ll try again

… sometime.

Le Mot Juste

abstract black and white blur book

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

LE MOT JUSTE

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.

 

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