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In honour of Bonfire or Guy Fawkes night, (November 5th), I am linking to some of my poems touching on that occasion:
Poetry for Guy Fawkes Night
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Monthly Archives: November 2016
There Was A Young Man Called Guy
There was a young man called Guy
Who, like Icarus, wanted to fly.
He jumped off Big Ben
At a quarter to ten.
I really don’t understand why!
in the end
Took just a moment
To look beyond the moment
That didn’t matter
©2016 Annette Rochelle Aben
Poppy
To those who died that you and me
Might live free.
To those who gave their sweet breath for King and Countrie.
I regret that yesterday
I had no cash to pay
For a poppy deep red
To remember the dead.
I will not know the stench
Of trench
Nor the wrench
Of fear
And pain as spear
Drains the life away.
What can the poet say
Who has never known
The touch of steel against bone?
We die alone
But most will peaceful go
And will not know
The woe
Of comrades lost,
Nor count the cost
Of bloody strife.
They will not give their life
That others (you and me)
May live free.
Having only my debit card I regret to say
That I could not buy
A blood red
Poppy to remember the dead
As I wended my way
To my nine to five job yesterday.
To My Dog, His Nose Pressed Up Against My window
“Tell me, what do you see?
As you gaze at yonder tree
Where squirrels jump from branch to branch
And leaves in the late Autumn air dance?
On seeing the fox, who strolls through the garden as though he owns the place
Do you trace in his wild face,
your fellow canine? And does his sharp bark
That oft times pearces the dark
Find an answering echo within your loyal dog heart?
Watching the world pass
Through my window glass,
Tell me
What do you see
As you gaze beyond yonder tree?”
A Short Analysis of T. S. Eliot’s ‘Death by Water’
The continuing analysis by Interesting Literature of Eliot’s “The Wasteland”.
A reading of the fourth part of The Waste Land
‘Death by Water’ is by far the shortest of the five sections of T. S. Eliot’s 1922 poem The Waste Land. The section which precedes it, ‘The Fire Sermon’, is 234 lines – over half of the entire length of the poem. Why is ‘Death by Water’ so short? We’re going to attempt a brief summary of this section of the poem here, along with some words of analysis. You can read ‘Death by Water’ here.
Any analysis of ‘Death by Water’ must contend with the question: how come this fourth section is so much shorter than the other four which make up The Waste Land? Well, it wasn’t originally. In [The Facsimile of the Original Drafts] (a must-read for any serious student of Eliot’s poem), we discover a much longer draft involving a crew of men…
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Well, yes, right…or write…
Interesting take on the desire of humans to make contact with aliens.
The clocks have gone back, and it’s getting dark earlier and earlier, but there is still a blackbird singing in the garden, although there is also the smell of wood smoke in the air – from a bonfire, I would guess – and a definite chill in the air. The autumn leaves have been exceptionally beautiful this year, seeming to have an extra couple of tones of red and orange. And there are still plenty of late flowers out. I may be a summer person, but it is decidedly beautiful at the moment..
I said I’d take part in NaNoWriMo this year, didn’t I? What on earth could I have been thinking of?
Did I really commit to writing over a thousand words a day all through the month?
Oh, for goodness sake! I’ve not even had time to look at anyone’s posts for the last five days, let alone…
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Knickers
The below poem was inspired by a comment overheard by me while enjoying a drink in a pub last weekend (Saturday 29 October).
—
“This beer tastes like lady’s knickers”, says an elderly man at a table.
Standing at the bar, I am scarcely able
To contain my laughter, and idly think
As I enjoy my drink
“what about a bra
And are
There knickers for the male kind?”
I find
In pubs much amusement
And bemusement.
“How would he know?”
Better not to go
There I think
As I sink
My drink.
“Lady’s Knickers” beer
Would taste most queer.
I shall be boring and stick to a well known brew
Although ‘tis true
I am curious to know.
But better not to go …
Finishing my second pint, I leave.
I perceive
This incident will stay with me.
I shall with glee
Write it down
Though it be
Nothing profound.
The Dark Is Always There
The dark is always there
Perceived by the self-aware
Who care
To stare
Beyond the bright lights
And passing sights
Into the ever-present night.
Uneventful
All was still in the church.
No lurch
Of sudden fear
To chill
My heart
As I passed the stones where the dead sleep.
Should I create, for the sake of art
A devil with horn?
No, I am forlorn
For this year
Neither scheming demon
Nor the obscene
Fingers of the dead
Troubled my boring Halloween!
K Morris - Poet 