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.

Crab apples

Close autumn here.

Low sun burns on the crabs.

They load the tree

with a russet cancer,

leeched on wood

that will not leaf

when the long spring comes,

taste bitterly stripped

at a bite as white flesh writhes

where the worm draws back,

before cold harms,

before seed dies.

Heads and Tails

 


Books shower our lawn;

drawings of soldiers,

blood dotted as dice,

dropping from battlements

staggered by cannon,

have blown haphazard

about the bushes.

Pennies tip meanly

from the money-box.

Ice-cream, a week’s comics,

exist away from war.

One flashed coin

falls apart; is tossed,

spin heads, spin tails,

by the chancy king

of a world of books,

or grass, or blood.

Time to write: ‘Just About’ Poems

I suppose we’ve all written them, ‘just about OK’ poems, those based on a rising of, or sighting of, something of interest, not plonked in the depths of profundity, not necessarily many-layered with meanings, not unusual enough to register for a lifetime, not, perhaps, experimental or very exploratory, only those that somehow need to be written and crafted, even if never offered for publication. But are they worth keeping?

I feel so. I don’t see them as light, occasional poems, nor as practise poems. For me the former are usually flipped off, most often satires in meter and verse, often savagely political. Practise poems are where I’m trying out a new form, or subverting it, or being experimental in some way. I wouldn’t want them published, but do use lines from them in other poems: otherwise, they get scrapped, though I might keep the title and notes for a different poem on a similar theme.

What do the ‘just about’ ones contain? Most often, there’s one understated theme; mostly they’re in free verse. The poem below, “Looking Back,” is an example. Its only motif is an expression of what is gone and what still survives, pursued through a very visual observation of what was around me when living in Lincolnshire – a decaying maltings building and its grounds beyond the end of my garden and views of the hills beyond. Neither the trope nor the descriptive parts are highly original or striking. Though it was edited four or five times and some lines changed, I didn’t check it for meter or internal rhyme; in this case, those weren’t what I was after. Mostly, I was going for a simple statement in simple language. There was no attempt to raise the emotional pitch of its impact; the meaning and feeling either came through, or it didn’t. 

In sum, poems like this are usually quiet, relatively straightforward and are usually observational. While not great or strongly arresting, they have something to say and perhaps that something need not be extended to any great length or depth or cleverness of language, image, form or motif.

‘Just about’ poems have a use. They’re a base-line. I know, within a couple of drafts, when a poem I’ve written is better or worse than these. If they’re worse, like practise poems they’re gutted for what is salvageable and I reach for the rubbish bin for the rest; if better, then they’ve a life (and lots of editing) of their own. I need base-lines; they’re part of my post-writing assessment and editing process. They’ve changed and developed over the years, but I still keep to the ‘just about’ poems as useful guides to what is acceptable and what isn’t.