Scrolling through clouds, looking for stray wit, But all I find are random ramblings – Nothing to say and urgent to say it, Clickbatey rants and cancelley gamblings. They’re over before they’ve even started, Afraid they’ll overload our brains. So much hot air, mentally farted From airhead blowhards and weathervanes. Puffed-up vol-au-vents of text, Finger-food with little flavour, We swallow them whole and move on to the next With nothing to chew and nothing to savour. And yet, what is my bitesize verse But an unasked opinion, a shouted letter ? And surely these poems are even worse, Cos they always think they’re somehow better…
The painting has nothing to do with the poem, I just like it.
A publisher picked up my poems And gathered them into a book. I thought I was made, my future was paid, My fortune assured in Mercedes and jade – Alas, so I greatly mistook.
The public all favoured my poems, And earned me the best-selling book. But sad to behold, just two hundred sold – My train hadn’t gravy, my bank hadn’t rolled, My economics unshook.
My publisher lauded my poems, Promotions were planned for my book – His numbers were great, and he just couldn’t wait For the readings to start which would quickly inflate The revenue earnings I took.
“The public will listen to poems, But won’t read them out of a book. You wanna earn cash ? You gotta be flash – Verses on tour is a lib·rar·y smash, Using your voice as your hook.”
“But I am a writer of poems, No actor that agents can book. My thing isn’t talking, my vocals are squawking – You wouldn’t demand this of Professor Hawking. This stagefright I just cannot brook.”
A publisher picked up my poems, But had to remainder my book. I cannot recite with the passion I write, So here I am working at Tesco by night – My words still in search of a look.
“A poem that never has thoughts within lines, but which carries each phrase and each sentence about between one line and next, as its structure is cut into sliver and strand that looks hard to read out”
– The Oxford Iambic Dictionary
No. You’ve done that wrong. This is a poem – notice the lines. They’re not just there to say “this is a poem”, Or to make for pretty layout designs. They are there to guide us along – This is crucial – notice the pause – The extra beats we don’t say, but we know ’em, That little silence that underscores. And the rhymes, the heart of the song, Don’t bury them all in the throng. So once again, and let ’em come strong –
“A poem that never has thoughts within lines but which carries each phrase and each sentence about between one line and next as its structure is cut into sliver and strand that looks hard to read out”
No, you’re still not that tight how you’re fitting it, No, it’s still not quite right how you’re hitting it, You’ve really gotta recite as they’ve written it, There’s no need to fight it to get it to knit – The breaks, the breaks, That break up each sentence In separate takes Of its clauses and thoughts. Look to the breaks as the structure and entrance, And look to the pauses that each line supports. Trust in the poet not to blow it, but to know, How to slow it, how to go it, and to show it all so. Follow their signs, let their lines set the flow –
“A poem that never has Lines within lines, but Which carries each phrase and Each sentence about Between one line and next as Its structure is cut Into sliver and strand That looks hard to read out”
Oh, shut up Wendy, carping still, Like a Guardian trendy, elite and crabby. I suppose you write your poems with a quill By candlelight, in a world chock-full of balladeers. But I warn yer, without the engineers There wouldn’t be a corner, for there wouldn’t be an abbey.
Brethren, Sistren, time has come, To rend this rhet’ric chain That keeps our poems tum-de-dum And ends each line in train. Enough ! Why must our efforts follow form ? Enough ! Why must their rhyming be the norm ? Enough, I say, bring forth the storm ! Blow down this old refrain !
I call on you, eschew all those Whose meter always chimes. You doubt how we with formless prose Can fight these structured times ? We must ! Until their villanelles concede. We must ! Until their odes and sonnets bleed. We must, I say, so take my lead: Reject this curse of rhymes !
You know, the public used to love A crafted verse, a witty rhyme, A fresh, bizarre or telling thought – But that was all a diff’rent time. These days, the public hardly notice, ’Cept for those they hear in songs – Elsewhere in there gen’ral lives, There’s nowhere where a verse belongs. But, you know, I blame the poets, Writing verse that’s too obscure – Too aloof or crass or trendy, Self-obsessed and immature. There’s no-one wants to please the masses, No-one wants to catch their mood – I tell you, light verse is the highest Form of poetry pursued. Ah, but listen to me whinging – Who am I, so untoward ? After all, I try to please you, And my verse is still ignored !
There’s no shame in prose, In stories and sayings, In thoughts and bon-mots, And pledges and prayings. But let’s not pretend They are what they are not: It’s prose that we’ve penned, It ain’t poems one jot ! Be proud of our prose For the prose that it is, Cos ev’ryone knows That good prose can still fizz ! And sure, we know sometimes That prose is poetic, But without the rhymes Then our poems won’t click – And ev’ryone knows When there’s prose at the roots, For poetic prose Is still prose to its boots. A verse without rhyme Is a song without music – But keeps its own time, Which will helps, if we choose it – For a song without music Can still be quite stellar: The beat lets us use it To sing a capella – The song is still driven On metrical feet. But a verse without rhythm’s A song with no beat. Yet a verse without rhythm Can still be good prose, And still can be striven for When we compose. So stop all this posing Of poetic throes – There’s no shame in prosing, So let prose be prose !
This is the rhythm and this is the line This is the poem that starts like this This is the stanza and this is the metre This is the terminal-tonal repeater
This is the engine and this is the spine This is the beat and it drives like this This is the tempo and this is the timing This the feminine method of rhyming
These are the syllables – see them combine These are the feet and they march like this These are the dactylic dactyls all chasing This is the pittering-pattering pacing
This is the rhythm and this is the line This is the poem that stops like this This is the build-up and this is the pending This is the climax and this is the ending
Yeats ? I’m better than him, any day ! Shakespeare ? Kipling ? Take them away ! Wordsworth ain’t worth a word, nor a letter – Betjeman, ha ! Bet you meant to be better.
Sure, they have moments – as do I, if you only knew – But it’s only their moments forever retold and adored. I could write beauty, should it suit me – and it does !, and I do ! But it’s always their words get remembered, and my words ignored.
To tell the truth, I’d always hoped I could have loved them all instead, But then they never wrote the lines I wished and needed to be said, And so it fell to me to please myself with what I couldn’t find, And that is why it’s only I who sparks my picky, prickly mind.
Oh, they all have moments, and I cling to these for dear love – That just for once they get me – when they get me right and get me good ! I need these, only ten times more so – scattered crumbs are not enough – Why must I hack my own damn verses just to feel I’m understood ?
Perhaps I over-dramatise a little, make too much a fuss, But surely we’ve all felt at times abandoned, like we’ve missed the bus – They make such lofty claims of how they speak for us, these sacred arts, Yet often fail so mis’rably to touch us in our hungry hearts.
Sure they have their moments – as do I ! Ah, but you’ll never know. I wouldn’t care, if only you could steal my thoughts and set them free. I know I have some beauty, somewhere – Ah, forget it, let it go… If only I could love them as you love them – but it ain’t to be.
Yeats ? I’m better, when we’re both said and done ! At least, to my audience of one.
Rhyming Couplets 