Poet: “Why do you dig a hole my good man?”
Workman: “Because I can,
While those who are not able
Sit at a table,
Wasting time
Trying to make their verses rhyme”!
Poet: “I have a plan
To make my lines scan.
Kindly move your van
And I will be on my way
To versify the livelong day”.
“Workman: Why bless my soul
This poet droll
So intent was he on his goal
Of writing verse,
That the man’s fallen into that there hole,
To be a rhymer is most perverse”!
A brief interlude
Of smooth bare arms
And female charms.
This verse crude
Must conclude
In lust
And dust.
Ode of the Dying Snowflake
I am a dying snowflake.
Smiling;
at oblivion’s laugh;
as my time goes past.
(C)BJG(Blair Gaulton)July 2016
No light garish and red
Only night’s dead hour,
and the flower
Whose bloom
Was gone to soon.
The moon
Shonne on
The rose picked
And stripped
By the wind that trifles,
Rifles,
And is gone.
Only a fool
Can object to Rousseau’s rule,
For “the general will”
Can do no ill.
It is treason
To deny
That “the people” are guided by reason
And he who does so must die.
So say I
Until “the general will”
Does ill
Unto me
And we are no longer free …
—
http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/General_will#Jean-Jacques_Rousseau
The bee
Full of lustfull glee,
The budding flower,
Aches to probe.
She holds him in her power,
Disrobes
And does expose
The tender mysteries of the rose.
He takes
And her passion wakes,
Until winter gaunt
Puts an end to flaunt
Of bee
And rosetree.
Waking to the alarm
He thinks on the charm
Of woman (not here).
Yet the imagined ideal
Does, I fear
So often obscure the real.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Girls ponder on jewels
While fools Misconstrue
What is true.
Hamlet will gather Rue
Ere the day is through.
—
In Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” it is, of course Ophelia (not Hamlet) who gathers rue.
Should a poem conform
To some abstract
Form
Of rhyme and metre?
Trying to hard may defeat her.
The poet that is, who striving for perfection
Feels only dejection
And bangs her head
Until she sees red
Or shooting stars,
Which rhymes with cars,
But not a publishing contract,
that is a fact …
Saints with feet of clay
Play
With fallen angels
Who have bills to pay.
Such men are Lucifer, some will say,
While others plead
Man has his needs
And there are hungry mouths to feed.
The poor Thai
Asks not why,
But takes the cash,
Or simply dies.
Anyone who has read Edgar Allan Poe can attest to his use of the English language to convey beauty as poignant and surreal to whatever situation life may reveal. His sense of the macabre is elegant and alluring, so much so that we see ourselves as the very target of ethereal forces at work.
The story of ‘Ligeia’ represents Poe’s fascination with love and the occult, the hidden side of life not often visited but which can unexpectedly manifest itself into the realm of the living. Love is enchanting at first and then assembles a castle of obsession. This theme is well represented in the very name of ‘Ligeia’, which borrows heavily from its origins as one of the Sirens in Greek mythology enticing sailors with alluring melodies and enchanted singing, causing blind obsession for the hypnotic sounds as the victims sail closer and closer, only to fall off the…
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K Morris - Poet 