When old men make a pass
At the youthful lass,
I wonder whether
Either party ever
Look in the glass
And think, “all this will, one day, pass”
Nymphs will play
And hair turn to grey.
The woman (once girl)
Seeing autumn leaves whirl,
May consider the youthful lass,
And think, “all things must, one day, pass”.
The bedroom door is open.
No words are spoken
Passions stir
But noone is there.
Closing the bedroom door,
Memories I recall.
‘Tis all
As it was before.
I can relate to this poem.
This is poem number one in a series of six, the rest of which which I’ll post through the coming week.
The Old Way 1
I often think the modern world feels like a party,
In a huge room filled with loud and boorish guests
Monopolising the conversation and jabbing fingers
And shouting each other down.
Me? I’m the one hiding in the kitchen;
I’m the one holding a drink and leaning against the wall,
Looking fed up with the whole wretched thing.
And just to continue with this analogy,
I feel as though I’ve tried the side door
And found it unlocked and,
With a quick glance around to see if anyone’s watching,
I’ve slipped out, away from the modern world.
There once was a poet named Lin
Who wrote poems on a baked bean tin.
She composed in free verse,
Which grew progressively worse,
But all the Modernists loved Lin!
When a young lady named Leigh
Dated a debauchee,
Her good friend Kate,
Being a reprobate,
Joined those 2 for tea.
When that old reprobate death
Fell in love with Beth,
She hid away
And I heard her say,
“I value my sweet breath!”.
On Wednesday 13 March, I shall be giving a private poetry reading, along with several other poets. I have a slot of 15 minutes to fill, and I am in the process of determining which of my poems to read. Thus far I have decided to recite the below poems:
I shall be spending part of my weekend in deciding which of my other poems to read.
Sorting through my work kindles in me a desire to publish a “selected Poems”. This is, I think a longer-term project requiring considerable thought and much burning of the midnight oil. It is, nonetheless something on which my heart is set.
Kevin
There was a young lady of Deal
Who broke a cheap high-heel.
She hopped through the town
In her flimsy nightgown
Pursued by a vicar called Neil!
How pleasant it is to dream
In the pristine
Groves of academe,
Where the hard
Fact of a messy backyard
Is rarely, or never seen.
There was a young man named Slattery
Who said “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery”.
But when they copied his art,
It broke his heart,
So he retired to live in a hattery!
