The Trouble With Verse
The trouble with verse is it runs round my brain/ and colours my writing again and again./ Waltz time's the worst, as it feels so entrancing/ - one two three one two three, twirling and dancing.//
Jumpy metre's just as bad./ Alliteration drives me mad./ Another problem's punctuation./ Tricky words like "delectation,"/ "politics" and "recondite"/ have no place in what I write.//
And then there's the case of the limerick:/ Once thought of it's hard to be rid of it./ It nags to be said/ In kitchen and bed/ de diddle de dums till I'm sick of it.//
At penning songs I have no skill:/ just tunes repeat, as some tunes will,/ taunting me to give them more/ than fiddle-and-bow and folky score.//
The englyn in English is angled to tease;/ A stately sonnet aims to please/ or anger or sadden./ An epic might madden./ Blank verse is my forte, without any doubt./ But, for all my complaining, I can't leave rhyme out!
Room Service
The woods are his playground,/ his larder, his own place:/ this private bear.//
Berries staunch his hunger:/ a feast of fungi, a platter of herbs./ Streams quench his thirst:/ finer than wine for/ this wild bear.//
Mountains for wandering./ Cavern his sleep place./ tall firs to scratch his back./ birds to comb his pelt./ Bees make honey, salmon swarm/ for this fine bear.
Childhood's home of my heart,/ the years have changed you:/ your thick warding stone walls pierced/ by windows fashionably large,/ your clear stoney yard filled now/ with a spreading ash tree./ The smell of cows has vanished/ from the farmhouse; and the hay-barn/ where first I made love/ is empty of all but spiders/ and a stranger's odds.//
Weeds crowd the lanes, the old ways/ have gone from you./ But still I see my father/ striding out into the early dawn./ The smell of his milking-coats still lie in my nose,/ and the magic of snow/ and "Blwyddyn Newydd Dda!" still dwell/ in my heart./
The rain sweeps the same across the valley,/ though the trains have gone;/ and the deep deceitful Teifi/ still flows as it did/ in the days of old times, full of fish and .//
A deep and perfect place:/ starry buds twinkle among silver-trunked woods./ Water slides green and grey and brown beneath,/ sliding, rippling, bubbling./ Primrose and celandine/ cling to the far bank, and small birds/ are busy between the boughs,/ There is no sound but the shallow churning stream/ and the wind/ and the birds./ Kingfisher flashes/ the year's first blessing.
Not having written a word for a week/ What kind of challenge is that?/ Bear's fertile brain has said barely a squeak/ And all those intentions fell flat./
But here I am penning a rhyme for a change/ (Though not much inspired, as you see)/ No longer I'll sulk like a dog with the mange;/ No longer from verse will I flee./
Though sometimes I'll feel like a bit of a fraud,/ Once more will I take up my pen,/ And though surely my writing will be somewhat flawed/ I'm back in the challenge agen!
"ineluctability"/ Wonderful alliterative word:/ Unstoppable force of a rolling boulder,/
The inescapable passage of time. Thus:/ The ineluctable rise and fall/ Of civilisations;/ The ineluctable rule of religions./ The ineluctability of change and/ The ineluctable slipping away of the old./ My mother is ineluctably slipping away./ Is it possible to re-eluct?/ To call her back?/ Call back her youth and vigour,/ So she no longer yearns to go?
Although I swore I wouldn't write a list,/ Here is, incomplete, / This week's gratefulness. For://
My husband, sleeping next to me./ My family, one by one,/ Before they left me/ For other lands.//
The place I live, country of my heart./ My dearest friends, ageing now/ My sight, my healthy body, my mind./ The gift of kindness. laughter.//
My name, from which I often garner strength./ Unusual parents, unlooked-for love./ Music, to play and to listen./ Birdsong, fragrance of flowers, and all/ Things sensual.//
Today is not a day for writing poetry. /
No lists of beautiful things, /
interesting or thoughtful things, /
just the sun, shining incessantly. /
Just the wind, blowing meanly through my fingers. /
No rain. Inspiration and flood waters have dried, /
and there's no music in my soul. No sadness /
either, nor boredom, nor joy. All the languages/
of my expressiveness are silent today. /
All except baking: in my kitchen /
- out of season now - /
hot cross buns are rising./
"He's digging down"/ said the woman on the bus.//
I would like to dig up/ shovelling the cold air/ like a mole/ up through the imagined/ toughness of clouds/ heaping my molehill/ womanhill/ above the brittle sky/
My first attempt at writing a poem in Welsh turned out to be a sort of sonnet! Hardly bard material, but I guess it's a start. Translation of sorts below.
gwyn yr eira, oer y gwynt,/ ddawr gwanwyn ddim ynghynt.//
wele ar y ben bob cangen/ hepian yw blagyren bychan.//
oedynt adar wneud eu nyth:/ mae gwynt yn gryfach eto'n fyth//
dere gwanwyn, dere haul!/ rhodda'ch caredigrwydd inni'n hael!//
disgwylwn weld yr byd yn gwennu,/ 'n glasu'r ddaear, llwyddo, bucheddu/ yn fuan byddwn calonogi/ yn sicr daw'r gwanwyn eleni!//
The TRANSLATION goes something like this:
white the snow, cold the wind,/ this isn't an early spring//
look, at the end of each twig/ a little bud is sleeping//
birds are delaying their nestbuilding:/ the wind is still getting stronger.//
Come spring! Come sun!/ give us generous kindness!//
We expect to see the world smiling/ the earth greening, flourishing, expanding/ soon we will be full-hearted,/ the spring is certainly coming this year!//
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