Verco Verco Brico

Encore at the End of Time by Rodney Matthews

Verco Verco Brico

I learned so much of what I know of poetry
From the joys of pop –
I soaked it up, subconscious, in no hurry,
Drop by golden drop.
The verse, the chorus, the linking-bit inbetween,
And the bridge that would soar –
The words were the fuel in the polished machine,
In structures as old as lore.

I never knew how I knew it at all,
But I knew it all,
When I heard the chorus call –

And the songs remained the same,
That’s how they’re made,
For any old hit you can name –
A-B-A-B, occasional C,
It’s all a game,
Repeat to fade.

I learned so much, I even learned surprise
When the form was messed about –
I loved it when they threw me, played me wise,
From frustration or mischief, no doubt.
From starting with the chorus before the verse,
Or adding a verse when it ought to end –
It felt illicit, and I longed to immerse,
In my iconoclastic, mixed-up friend

I never knew how I knew it was wrong,
But I knew so strong
When I heard that rebel song –

Cos the songs can’t stay the same –
We need new tricks
Not more of what the past became –
A-B-A-B, you’re boring me –
Let’s change the game,
Let’s re- the mix !

Come on, pop, I’m looking to you
For something new,
To change your key.
So come on, pop, don’t let it be,
Let’s tear on through
This boogaloo !
I need you, pop, to shake the tree,
Rejecting their authority,
A-one, a-two,
That’s what you do –
So do it for me !

Are you ready,
Ready to leap right off this ridge ?
Into the space beyond the dials ?
Into our hungry ears ?
To see what’s at other end of this bridge,
In the unfamiliar miles
Of the pregnant years ?
Just because we’ve played three minutes,
Who says that it’s time to stop ?
To push things past the social limits,
Isn’t that the point of pop ?

Examples of unusual song structures that struck me over the years:

OMD often used an instrumental hook as a chorus, as does Seven Nation Army.  Del Shannon’s Runaway used an instrumental in place of the second verse.  The Byrds’ version of Mr Tambourine Man has a chorus, a verse, a chorus…and that’s it !  Does that make the verse more of a bridge…?  Except it feels it lasts too long for that…  This feels like a cut-down version of AABA (many ‘Great American Songbook’ tunes, like Somewhere Over the Rainbow), where the verses are doing all the heavy lifting with just a single bridge coming in the latter half.

Speaking of verses, repeating the opening stanza at the end of the song is quite common (Nights In White Satin, Annie’s Song), but Paper Planes by MIA repeats all of its four verses as soon as it sings them, so we hear the first verse twice before moving onto the second, which then repeats before the third etc. Killing In The Name uses the same verse (and of course the same chorus) before it’s extended bridge section that you’ll never hear on the radio, and Mr Brightside effectively repeats the entire song in the second half. Not to mention I’m Henery the Eighth I Am

Sometimes an instrumental would come early, after the first chorus instead of the second (Pipes of Peace, The Importance of Being Idle), followed by a repeat of the chorus which we perceive as the climax, but then proceed with the second unexpected verse while not actually being any longer.

Some songs reduce the chorus to a single line, like The Sound of Silence.  Perhaps this is less ‘chorus’ and more ‘refrain’.  Conversely, songs that could be thought of as all chorus Love Me Do and There She Goes.  Other songs, like many by Def Leppard, deny us the chorus the first time through, moving from pre-chorus straight into the second verse.

Metal has often seen songs as more of a symphony, and not just in terms of guitar solos – they often have more lyrics and parts than three-minute pop – for instance, Metallica’s One develops midway into almost a different song, and doesn’t even circling back to its origins.  Even more medley-esque is Happiness is a Warm Gun, where the parts only feel loosely related.  Another song which wanders yet finds its way back home is Bohemian Rhapsody, yet keeping us on our toes through the journey (or at least it did when first we heard it, way back when).

Some songs seem to introduce the bridge for the first time, but then forget to repeat the chorus, so we have an outro instead, like Immigrant Song, Flash, or What Do You Want From Me.

But best of all wae the songs which refuse to keep under five minutes, and not just by repeating the chorus too many times.  Some like Suede’s The Asphalt World make us think they’re winding down, but the coda turns into an intermission as they kick themselves up again and regain their momentum.  I get this sense from I Feel Love as well, as long as you don’t have the bastardised cut-down radio version.

Of course, not every song can have a bizarre structure, nor should it, but neither should we feel compelled to follow the formula when the song wants to go somewhere different.  If only, following AAB, the Rainbow had led us to a C instead…?

Soap Bubbles

A still life by Marcel Christ

Soap Bubbles

There’s a poem that I meant to write,
Back when I wrote them ev’ry day,
Back when I still had things to say –
I should have said it then.
And now, I don’t remember quite,
Except it would have been a hit –
Before it faded, bit by bit,
And stayed within my pen.

But humour me and let me quote to you
Some lines I almost wrote –
Some lines I never got to know,
Yet knew were quite the best I’d ever show.
Ah well, no point lamenting,
Or resenting one that floated off instead –
Although, I sometimes wonder
At the hundred things that moment might have said.

There’s a poem that I meant to write,
Back when the poems wrote themselves,
As passionate as magic spells –
I should have cast it then.
And now, the page is far too white,
And now my metre’s far too slow.
I had my chance, and let it go –
It won’t come round agen.

But sit with me and let me read
A few more lines I never freed,
Some lines I never knew I knew –
Adieu – into the ether with god-speed.
Ah well, no point regretting,
Or forgetting all the other ones that stay –
I wrote too many verses
To waste curses on the one that got away.

Tell Me Four Times

Photo by Nothing Ahead on

Tell Me Four Times

The purpose of my villanelle was saying something true,
I had no time for discipline, for form and getting-rid –
I tried to be original, and thought I’d cracked it, too !

Yet the more I tried rebelling, so the less my lines would skew,
They would fall into a pattern that I vainly would forbid –
The purpose of my villanelle was lacking derring-do.

But poems are for grown-up, once native wits accrue,
And I guess I wasn’t ready, I was just a little kid –
I tried to be original, but nothing ever flew.

I didn’t understand that the point I should pursue
Is to use the same lines over, determined on a grid –
The purpose of a villanelle is lexographic glue.

The formula was founded to re-frame our point-of-view,
When focused on the emphasis, and how the meaning slid –
I tried to be original, but couldn’t follow-through.

The purpose of my villanelle was saying something new,
But the lines kept on repeating, no matter what I did.
I tried to be original, but hadn’t got a clue !

Poetry No Thanks

BBC Microphone by Matt Brown

Poetry No Thanks

Once you had the finest actors
Reading the finest verse.
These days, all you have are poets –
Humourless, or ever worse…-
Picking po-faced prosy poems
With not a single rhyme,
So self-important now,
And yet won’t stand the test of time.

What happened to the punk sensibility
Of doing-it-yourself, and damn the rules ?
Now it’s a lit-fest for middle-class luvvies
With their tortured trochees taught in schools.
Your audience is tiny and shrinking,
With afternoon Sundays such a bore –
But you tick the boxes and fill the quotas,
And isn’t that what poetry’s for ?

Once you had the finest actors
Reading the finest verse,
But now your budget is slashed,
And your ambition must fit your purse.
They read them out in lilting whinges,
Full of I Me Mine –
Come on, Roger, cheer us up,
With a quick and witty line !

Ivory Garrets

Photo by Nguyen Nguyen on

Ivory Garrets

Is anyone more self-obsessed than a poet ?
Raging and swooning and preaching out loud –
These lilting doom-mongers and told-you-so know-it-alls,
Playing their ev’ry stray thought to the crowd.

Smugger than columnists, vainer than vloggers,
Oblivious pedants and bleeding-heart pseuds –
Even the Northerns are middle-class floggers
Who castigate readers for wrong attitudes.

With relevance dwindled and audience bored,
With their meanings obscured and their verbiage enlarged,
They choose to ignore how the world has ignored them –
They’re people like me, infact – guilty as charged.


Not only can I not find out who drew this caricature, but I’m not even sure that it is of Ogden.


Ogden Nash, a curious beast,
A sentiment-famine and sarcasm-feast,
A mem’rable name from another age,
A cynical-eyed bespectacled sage.
A clutter of couplets, a strenuous rhyme,
A rapid-fire rhythm in Brooklyn time.
And puns by the plenty, both groaners and snorters –
Whicj when we try to quote, we forget three-quarters.

Oh yeah, fourteen…

Oh yeah, fourteen…

What’s that ?  This is a sonnet, you say ?
Are you sure ?  It seems all at sevens-and-nines…
A sonnet, I thought, is an interplay,
And not just four quatrains missing two lines ?
And honestly, this is a mess, all the way,
With less imag’ry and more warning signs –
It just about holds to its rhythm okay,
Though that cannot be said of its half-arsed rhymes.
Regarding its volta…I guess that it has one,
Though hardly a good one, it’s barely defined –
And when it resolves, well, at least there’s no pun !
So, C+ for effort…and that’s being kind…!
If this is a sonnet, there’s loads for the taking…
Then…oh no !…is that all the point that it’s making…?


Crown by Ben Ashton


I know I’m good,
But I’m all alone in knowing,
And there’s no-one shares my faith –
I know I’m good,
But my telephone ain’t blowing,
And there’s no-one cares one-eighth.
I never meant to be misunderstood,
But I can’t make them see it in my neighbourhood –
And even a tree has less dead wood than me,
I’m just a nobody who knows he’s good,
But the world will not agree.
I know, I know, I could be mad,
A self-deluding lad
Who wants to crow –
I guess I’ll never let it go…

I know I’m good,
But I’m all Jack Jones to know it,
And I’m very out of style –
I know I’m good,
But my funny bones don’t show it,
When they just can’t raise a smile.
I don’t understand why I’m misunderstood,
Like it’s all been planned thus for my victimhood –
From Sunderland to Hollywood, I’m panned
I’m just a jobbing hand who knows he’s good,
But the world is old and bland.
I know, I know, I could be wrong,
Deluded all along –
But I don’t think so.
I’ll guess I’ll give it one more go…

The Last Poem I’ll Ever Write

Echoes by Jesse Lane

The Last Poem I’ll Ever Write

To write a poem was the task
I set out to achieve.
Surely that’s not much to ask,
An easy art in which to bask –
With so few words upon the page,
I’ll strut upon their verbal stage
With fiery passion, gothic rage,
And earn myself a healthy wage.

But as I try to flow my words
I suddenly recall
That prior to my boast absurd,
’Twas but with prose my voice was heard.
So now I’m fighting to define
A rhythm with no sense of time.
I jar the meter, strain the rhyme,
And hammer into place the line.

With plaintext, now, there is no squeeze,
Just liberty unbound –
No form to keep, or rhyme appease,
I use what words I bloody please.
And yet for all it has to tell
Such prose so slowly works its spell –
But poems rouse and poems quell
So swift, so much, and so damned well.

And so shall I, if my lines loose
Can all join up in rhyme –
Too oft, alas, I’m chasing goose
When searching for a couplet’s deuce.
Some perfect words, oh yes !  Oh no !
The rhymes are close, they almost go –
If we can just pronounce them so ?
They almost work, will have to do.

In fact, I see I’m not alone,
For even pros get stumped.
For even poets have been known
To clank a line they cannot hone.
No more these pointless rhymes unwise !
No more these hamstrung verbal ties !
For when it works, it sings and flies,
And when it stalls, it chokes and dies.

Of course, I need not rhyme my song,
’Tis only one approach.
But to me it seems quite wrong
Rejecting this tradition long
While this art’s held in modish grip
Abhorring letting couplets slip.
I want a rhyme that darts and skips,
Not prose that’s hacked-up into strips.

And even then, I’ve had to cheat,
My second lines hang loose.
My own command I cannot meet,
Such irony is harsh defeat.
I pad-out lines with rhymes so fake
And tenuous for rhyming’s sake,
While half the points I try to make
Won’t fit this rigid frame,
and break.

So this quaint need I hold so dear
For ‘proper’ poetry
Will thwart me now from making clear
That which I wish the world to hear –
My feeble efforts howl with pain,
My content swamped in verbal strain,
My labours wasted, all in vain !

I shan’t be trying this again.

Less Bohemian, More Czech

Less Bohemian, More Czech

All great Artists have a vice,
But I’m a tepid type –
I try to keep my manners nice
And give no cause for hype.
I’ll never be a rabble-rousing rebel,
Nor a cad,
Just knocking back the trebles
On my way to going mad,
With my pockets full of pebbles
And a need for worship bad
I’m much more pipe-and-slippers (less the pipe).
I guess I am a Larkin or an Eliot at heart
Than a Dylan or a Kingsley with a passion full of art –
I mean, I have a mongrel and a mortgage for a start !
And I always found Romantics over-ripe.
I guess I’m not an Artist-capital-A,
But that’s okay.
(And it really ain’t my mode, that way.)
I’m hardly a conspiracist, eccentric and uncouth,
I’m not a Goth or horny toad, or tender, tortured youth,
Or rainbow-dressed consumptive who is dying for some Truth –
That’s just a load of self-obsessing tripe !