Cue Triolets

I didn't want to write this thing,

have never written one before.

How do you make it dance and sing?

I didn't want to write this thing,

but it insists. Please, let me wring

its neck. Oh well! You say try more?

I didn't want to write this thing;

have never written one before.

I think I'll write a series now.

You're sure you want some more like this?

O.K. You’ll need to tell me how,

I think. I'll write a few more now

if I can find my wits, then bow

to those who do it well - and hiss!

I think I'll write a series now.

You're sure you want some more like this?

I've just dreamed up another one.

Oh look! You see how good I've got

(and kid on I'm no dimwit Hun).

I've just dreamed up another one

(but will they fall for such a ton

of shite? No way, the poem's rot).

I've just dreamed up another one.

Oh look! You see how good I've got.

Right now, I'm getting very bored

and tap this pencil on my chin.

This rhyme-scheme hasn't struck a chord

right now. I'm getting very bored.

This bloody metre’s got me bloody floored

and all I want's a bloody gin.

Righ' now, 'm gerrin' ver-he bored

n' chap thish penshul on m' shin.

So who dragged up this stupid form?

Its ends keep going round and round

and buzz like bees about to swarm.

So who dragged up this stupid form?

My God! It causes such a storm

a bard could wish it lost, not found.

So who dragged up this stupid form?

Its ends keep going round and round.

 

I’m pooped. I've had enough of these;

am quickly running out of steam

and sick of swatting all those bees.

I’m pooped. I've had enough of these

unsubtle lines; I’m on my knees.

So - lemme out! I wanna scream!

I’m pooped. I've had enough of these,

am quickly running out of steam.

That's it! I've done my time. I'm through,

and won't be writing triolets;

I’ll turn my back on those who do.

That's it! I've done my time. I'm through,

I'm off; am driving down to Kew.

You'll find me eyeing violets.

That's it! I've done my time. I'm through

and won't be writing triolets.

 

Translation

Grey dawn now and the light

still burns by the bed.

Its brightness dies on the wall

while the sun rises behind me,

flared square on the carpet

in its progress across the room.

Sounds from the kitchen absolve me

from making a meal

as your otherwise silence carries

beyond the morning’s murmur

of news and music. The doors

are open. Air translates

the distance between us. Rooms

will divide all day

in the house when sunbeams trail

their slant through dust. The hours

will share their warmth with our work

and tonight the lamp will burn by the bed.

Equinox

There are slowed and different days when woods

become their death colour, brilliance of red and gold

and orange shining, all fatally crisp.

Life hunkers at root as stretched nights etch

into afternoons and fire happens in fields,

on gorse where game cocks hid their mating shades,

here where summer turns back from its border,

the loch edge littered with autumn clutter, reflections.

For seventy years I have noted the changes, have loved

burnings and drownings, the snap and shatter

of leaves underfoot. Now they appal in awareness

of winter; the halt at the solstice no longer appeals

when all fades fast in the coaxing cold.