1. You are so wrong, so very very wrong, To think that rhymes wreck the verse. Sure, they get used where they don’t belong, And when ill-used are a curse. And yes, they take their time to mature In the life of the poet’s pen – They cannot be nervous, must always be sure, And practiced agen and agen.
2. They write their verses blank and free, And barely bait the hook – But Keats and Frost and Tennyson Can still be grasped by anyone. They write their verses free and blank, And barely sell a book – While Blake and Burns and Betjamin Can still sell-out and fetch ’em in.
3. I tell myself, its cos they rhyme – They hate me that, they hate me that. I know my verse is in its prime – They must see that, they must see that. But still I always get rejected, While some prosy tripe’s selected. Must be just how I suspected – Must be that, it must be that.
Ev’rywhere in poetry, Ev’ryone must show it free – Jarring, scaring, woe-is-me – Fashion of the times. Me, I think their mumbling knows, Ev’rybody’s writing prose – But not I, I’m fighting those – Gotta have my rhymes. Gotta have my flowitry, My meenie minie moetry, My Edgar Allen Poetry – Rhythm is no crime ! Even when it strains my lung, Even when it stains my tongue, Even when my brain is wrung – I sing it till it chimes.
Polly Dacktle has ten fingers, (Well, eight fingers, And two thumbs.) Polly Dacktle has ten fingers, But there lingers… What’s that…Crumbs ! Look ! She also has a spare Upon her hand, just waiting there – So if another needs repair, Then out her extra digit comes. Of course, it’s always there, if needed – And if not, it’s there unheeded – Always there, the ten exceeded. (Good for doing tricky sums.)
Polly Dacktle must wear mittens, Only mittens, Never gloves. Polly Dacktle must wear mittens, Like her kittens. (Not like doves.) She wants fingers free to move With ev’ry digit in its groove – And so with scissors she’ll improve – She snips and tears and pulls and shoves. Now she has contrived to riddle There a hole ’tween Ring and Middle Where her spare can flex and fiddle, (Just how Polly Dacktle loves.)
Polly Dacktle learns piano, Learns piano From her Teach. Polly Dacktle likes piano (Miss Delano’s such a peach.) Polly has to practice scales And stretch for keys, but never fails – Her widened span just skips and sails And holds all music in her reach. Gripping racquets, catching balls, And shooting baskets, climbing walls, Or sculpting clay, and dialing calls – Polly scores at all and each.
Polly Dacktle isn’t evil. Never evil, Often good. Polly Dacktle isn’t evil – (Nor’s the weevil In the wood.) Neither one is plotting danger Just because their look is stranger. Polly’s fine, so never change Her many-multi-fingerhood. Shake her hand – there’s no electrics, No prosthetics, no deceptricks. She can touch in asymetrics. (Don’t you sometimes wish you could ?)
Someone I sort-of kind-of knew, I learn has died. I heard the should-be-sadder news today, a fortnight on. It feels too late for grieving, so I haven’t cried – I vaguely wish I could, but still I’m dry inside. For truth – I feel removed, my slightly-closeness gone – I know I have no right to, but I feel a touch denied. But that’s alright, it’s just a touch, And maybe they’d admit that they would only half-remember me. I know I knew them not so much, But let me dwell a bit upon their insufficient memory.
Bank Holiday Monday – It’s just two Sundays in a row. Why must we clone the one day Where the time ticks-by so slow ? The world is closed by three, As people lose their appetite – And though we know tomorrow’s free, We stay home Sunday night. Then comes the dreaded day When we have to do stuff, rain or gust, We must not let it waste away Without the National Trust. But here’s a thought, I say, When we need a break to stay ahead – Let’s all take off a Friday, And get two Saturdays instead !
Rachel Weeping for her Children by Stephen Gjertson
Here Today
We’ll never know when our end shall be, The screen goes black, the credits roll, And wide awake or in our sleep, We’ll never know we lack a soul. Perhaps that’s why for some it’s tempting Taking matters in control.
I’ll never know how they make the choice, And they, alas, aren’t here to tell – Chronic pain or chronic guilt, Or pits of lonely, muffled hell ? I hope it’s not intense romantic folly That has cast its spell.
I’ll never know how they feel that way, So desperate to shed the weight – Yet if I’m honest, right now in my life Most things are not so great But never for a moment do I Seriously contemplate.
I’ll never know, and I hope I never will What makes them run aground. There’s always a chance of beauty, And belief it can be found – I’m certain that I’ll kick this slump And you’ll be seeing me around.
Playing Marbles and Rag & Bone Man by Steven Scholes
Mongers
We used to be just simple merchants – Iron, fish, and cheese, And jack-of-produce costermen – The traders in the bare necessities. But now we’re only spoken off As rumour, scare, and war – We’re jack-the-lads of shadowmen, Now hawking abstract concepts door-to-door.
My brother is a part of me, I carry him within He will forever be my twin. We joined our forces in the womb, Became a greater whole, The soul with whom I share my soul. Behind these eyes, within this skin, Above our common tongue – Our mutual breath is in each lung, But in our synapses we part, Although I hear his thoughts – They burn in me like sparks in quartz. But those are his, that other voice, That telepathic call – I have no choice but hear them all. For he’s the evil, I’m the nice, Yet brothers of the blood – Our heart beats twice, our sinews flood, And we will fight to shine or sin As only brothers could… I mostly win – that’s why I’m good. But don’t be shocked and don’t blame me When he must have his fun – For we are we, and we are one.
I lived the life I lived because I found myself alive with life to spare. I sang the songs I sang because The songs were short, and cheap, and ev’rywhere. I did the things I did because The things I did were needing to be done. I trod the path I trod because I had to tread a path, and here was one.
Last Autumn, all your leaves came down – Just like they must each year. But seeing them when dead and brown, And unlike all the rest in town, Is just too late, I fear. I should have seen them all when green ! But now I wondered – what tree had we here ?
Big, they were, the largest, broadest leaves In all this urban wood And finger-lobed, for holding-up the eaves, And poking now from gutter-sleeves About the neighbourhood. My thought was fig, with leaves that big, Yet far too gropey to do Eve much good.
But I, alas, might never even know, For once your leaves were shed – The shears came out and brought you low, As all your branches had to go And left your trunk for dead. No tree could sleep with cuts so deep – You surely won’t be rising out of bed…
April was well underway before Your twigs began to sprout. And then, such tiny hands they bore, As ev’ry day a couple more To prove you yet were stout. At this rate Fall would claim them all Ere half the sun-grab hands were even out !
But then I looked a little lower, Where some suckers crowd the roots – While your wounds may heal the slower, Round your foot you’re still a grower Shooting out a dozen shoots. Succour feeders, weed succeeders, Sucking sunshine into fruits.
May saw plenty spindly upper twigs – A hedgehog on each bough, To carry leaves, so close, so big, As if they’d snap right off the rig, But seemed to cling on anyhow. As June grew late, they put on weight As fleshy forearms now.
By summer, something stirred in me, A memory about the bumps That swell no larger than a pea – They’re really next’s year’s fruits-to-be. But here, of course, there were no lumps – For what life stirred was secateured Down to your barest stumps.
So will I have to wait another year To see your fruits in Fall ? I wonder if I’ll still be here… You will, of course, that much is clear – You’re bursting branches big and small. Unless your twigs are lacking figs Because you never were a fig at all…
Rhyming Couplets 