POETS

I find it interesting that in the past there was a multitude of suggested
structures for writing a poem, metre, rhyme and length were specified.
I imagine that, like the rules of musical harmony that I was taught as a
youth, the poetic rules came after the works were written in order to enable
us lesser writers to emulate the great.
There is a book by the Canadian poet Robin Skelton 'The Shapes of our Singing'
which contains over 300 formats collected from all over the world. The really remarkable thing is that Skelton has written a poem in every form, many of them
very good poems indeed.
One form that caught my attention long ago was the use of alliteration as
used in Chaucer's time. It's like having 'rhymes' at the beginning of words instead
of at the end.
I had a go.

POETS
by
FRANK BRYCE

Like scavengers scouring a scarified tip
Picking at left over leavings of lives
Scrabbling for scraps for hoarding and saving
Rummaging, rooting for rhythms and rhymes.

Death and destruction are special delights
Tragedies, traumas the tools of their trade
Loves lost or languishing gladden their hearts
From such sad subjects their poems are made.

Then weaving their ways with everyday words
Shaping their lines of sadness and sorrow
Restoring lost loves with longings fulfilled
Telling today the truths of tomorrow.

They say look and remember, life doesn't last
We write to help you to cope
with the rawness and rot and just to remind you
that here there is happiness, beauty and hope.

any comments?

'PAPIER MACHE' was written as a response to the theme of
WASTE and RECYCLING. It was published along with 'THE WOOD'
in the magazine 'TEXTYLE' (www.textyle.wordpress.com)
whose founding editor is Lucy Burnett (once a fellow student).
After bleating earlier about chopped up prose I stand accused and
guilty but this poem has, I believe, shape and most importantly rhythm.
What do you think?

PAPIER MACHE
by
Frank Bryce

I watch her face as we tear strips of paper
from this morning's 'News' I haven't read yet.
She frowns and sticks out her tongue
as she concentrates
just like her mother.

"They should be two point five centimetres wide"
she says
consulting the notes she made last night
as she watched 'Blue Peter'.
She's proud of her writing, newly learned
and has begun to make stories
about princesses and robots
and being good.

The PVA glue is diluted
ready for the next stage of production,
defined by her notes,
it's a bunch of flowers in a plastic tub
which we'll paint when they're dry
with the bright poster paints
she got for her birthday last year.

She reminds me to take them
at visiting time and to be sure
to explain they're for her,
with all our love
to help her get better,
"I'm sure they will"
I tell her.

TECTONIC

I wondered if a person's occupation would affect
his/her style when writing a love letter/poem
so I decided to write
1. as a geophysicist and
2. as an insurance salesman.
There could be more if I get round to it.
An 84 year old knackered pensioner?? (forget it)

1.
TECTONIC
by
Frank Bryce (BSc Geo, failed)

The restless earth stirs in its sleep
And testily shrugs a mountain aside,
Drowns an island,
Fractures a town,
Stretches and brings a mudslide down.

But not all movement is undesired,
And Nature's force won't be required
The earth will move
And worlds collide
When our epicentres coincide.

2.
UNDER GUARANTEE
by
Frank Bryce (Fidelity Insurance, fired)

I quite fancy you, though I'm not sure why,
But maybe together we could give it a try?*

Perhaps in time you'll get used to my ways
I'll give you my love if you promise to stay**

To make it easier to reach a decision
You can have the spare room and both televisions***

I really will try to be all that you need
I'll cherish you, follow wherever you lead,
Play with you, stay with you, as long as I may,
I'll always be there as night follows day,
Nothing will part us no matter how odd

*Notified terms and conditions apply
** It must be returned in twenty-eight days
*** Subject to the usual contractual provisions
**** Excluding terrorism and Acts of God

THIS OLD MAN

Every so often magazines, Sunday supplements etc. ask us if we know
'The Real You' and provide a questionnaire to help us find ourselves. I always found this rather ridiculous, of course I knew who I was. Then one day I opened
my eyes whilst shaving, looked in the mirror and thought;-

Who's this old man who pretends to be me?
Drinking my whiskey eating my bread
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee. 

Where is the young man I used to be?
Who followed loves light wherever it led
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?

He’s nearly stone deaf and can hardly see,
It takes him an hour to get out of bed
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee.

My lively young mind, creative and free
Has somehow got trapped in this balding head,
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?

Never goes out never watches TV
Staying at home he reads Plato instead,
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee.

When did it happen? I thought I was free
from time’s malice, stalking with silent tread.
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee,
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?

THIS OLD MAN
(a sort of villanelle)
by
FRANK BRYCE

          

LEAVE US ALONE

He thought it would last for ever, his first real love,
when the world was a love song
and life was purple,
then she left
and the world was grey again.
To vent his feelings he wrote,
not to the Times but to those, partly responsible
for his condition,

To the muses Erato and Polyhymnia

Dear Sirs,
You seem unaware of the disturbing influences
inherent in the practice of your vocations with your
BLOODY POETRY! and BLOODY MUSIC!
Making us think that what is, is not
and what is not could be.
We live our lives as shadows
cast on the wall of a caliginous cave
staring ahead
not wondering
not caring
not thinking until
BLOODY POETRY! BLOODY MUSIC!
come along and make us wonder
where the light is from
and what the words betray
as the music rips into our souls
leaving us uncontent
BLOODY POETRY! BLOODY MUSIC!
Why can't they leave us alone?
We were happy enough before we knew
there was another life
of truth and beauty and love,

BLOODY POETRY!

BLOODY MUSIC!


(LEAVE US ALONE
by
FRANK BRYCE)

THE PETITION

There is a church in Manchester known as ‘The Little Gem’. The exterior is unexceptional but the interior is elaborately decorated. Some years ago
we went to visit and whilst we were there a poem occurred;

The Te Deum ends and blends with the passed over prayers that hang in the air,
            Waiting acknowledgment.
    A shadow stirs, becomes a man, ponderous, slow
            Hesitant.
    His head a discarded maquette of rough clay,
            Meant for a hero.
       His clothes un-pressed, shiny with grease from solitary meals
            Infrequent.
    Shuffling forward on slippered feet, half blind,
            Knees bent.
He fumbles with parsnip fingers for a coin from his plastic purse,
            A present,
            And sets a candle by the font to lighten the darkness
                   She left behind.

                THE PETITION
                  by
                 Frank Bryce

THE WOOD

I don't often enter poetry competitions, I'm too retro I suppose and can't believe that tearing up prose into lines of various lengths without rhyme,  OK  or rhythm,  less OK and without a memorable poetic phrase is what I thought of as 'poetry'. Yes I am an old, tight fisted,cynical sod so I don't waste mi money on entry fees.However, when the BBC Wild Life magazine ran a competition for a nature poem with free entry I decided to enter and submitted the following which began as a poem about nature but became something different. No it didn't win but it did get a special recommendation, how about that? (what did you say Bryce about torn up prose and no rhyme?)

THE WOOD
by
FRANK BRYCE

The first time we were here the rain had stopped
leaving that sweet earthy smell that woodlands have when wet
and we scuffed our shoes through the leaves
and the fresh green shoots that told of the coming Spring.
And later we came back to see the bluebells
and you told me that their other name was Endymion non-scriptus
and I said that didn't seem very suitable
as Endymion was the setting sun in Greek mythology
and I'd never seen a blue setting sun
and you said I was too picky and to stop showing off
and just to look and enjoy,
and I teased you saying that non-scriptus was apt considering
and you said considering what
and I said how many poets had gone round the bend
trying to describe a sunset
and you pushed me into a patch of wild garlic
and when you tried to help me up I pulled you down
and you said to be careful
and so we just held each other
and that was a good time.
And we came again in Summer as you recovered
and I tried not to envy the blackbirds and the doves with their young
and even the insects flaunting their abundance
and we stayed until late not wanting to return to the empty flat
and in the twilight our favourite silver birch looked like a moonlit ghost
and I remembered the bluebells
and tried to distract you by telling you that the birch tree was Selene
and the moon-goddess was searching for her love Endymion
and he was no longer here
and you started to cry and I wished I'd kept quiet.
And now in Autumn the sun shines
and the trees parade their stylish new colours
and I hear someone say how beautiful the wood looks
and I nod, but without you
the fallen leaves only foreshadow the winter.