I have dreamed many a dream
Where fantasy
Did seem
To be reality.
And I have thought, that I ought
To take care
Lest my dream, turn to nightmare.
For in dreams
All is not what it seems,
And who can fathom
The chasm
That may or may not be
Between a dream,
And reality?
Sometimes I think we poets obsess
Too much on grim death.
We hear the blackbird sing
And say “the flowers that bloom
In spring,
And this bird, so full of joy,
Time will destroy,
All too soon”.
We obsess
Over the maid
In her white
dress,
And say, “she will fade
Into the eternal night”.
Yet there is much delight
In the maid,
And when, into the night
Poet and maid
fade,
They may leave to posterity,
More than poetry.
I can imagine you
Minus sock
And shoe.
That would certainly shock.
But you
Are too
Prim and proper
To come a cropper
In that interview!
I see
Me,
Indistinct,
As a shadow,
And think,
This sunny day
And my shadow,
Must fade away
You may imprison
A name
In a euphemism,
To avoid shame,
But it will get free
And be
Known all the same.
Out of discretion,
Or, to avoid pain
You may euphemise
A profession,
But behind those enigmatic eyes
Lies,
The same, much traduced,
Ancient name.
A couple of days back, I fell into conversation with a jazz musician. We talked about jazz, his teaching of music and the jazz performance I had recently attended at my local pub. On me mentioning that I am a poet, my companion said that he had recently been given a copy of Stephen Fry’s “The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B003V4AT1C/, and that he had just started to compose poetry.
I have not read Fry’s “The Ode Less Travelled”, consequently I’m unable to comment on the book. I did, however say to my companion that whilst books on poetic craft may, in some instances, be helpful, its crucial to read as much poetry (of all kinds) as possible to enable the development of one’s own unique style. Such reading will bring one into contact with poetry which is not to your taste, however this is, nonetheless useful in honing the poets ability to compose verse.
I am not dismissing works on poetic craft. Indeed I have on my shelves “The Poet’s Voice and Craft”, which consists of a series of lectures by famous poets explaining how they go about writing poetry, and other aspects of poetic craft, (https://www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781857540208). Whilst I’d have no hesitation in recommending this book, in my opinion reading Keats, Housman, Blake, Larkin, Auden and a myriad other poets will prove of more benefit than pouring over numerous tomes on poetic craft.
Of course there is a danger that by reading other poets, we come to replicate them. One must always be wary of falling into the trap of (either consciously or unconsciously) trying to outWordsworth Wordsworth, or outBlake Blake, but by reading other poets and absorbing the poetic tradition, one learns, over time to develop one’s own unique voice.
I have been told that a number of my poems remind readers of Emily Dickinson, Larkin and a number of other poets. I have never (consciously) attempted to write in the style of any poet, but take such comments as compliments. We build on the poetic tradition. We can, of course augment it but, ultimately we are all part of the great cultural heritage that has gone before.
As ever, your comments are most welcome.
Kevin
I think on feet
I wish to meet.
And on girls who lose
Stiletto shoes,
Or maybe,
Keep them on for me.
I think on the dance of feet
Beneath the sheet,
And on scattered clothes,
And a rose, that was once a rose.
Yet not all girls lose, their precious shoes.
Lust
Makes the strong
Weak with desire,
But passion’s song
Must
End in dust.
How sweet and sad was the bird
I heard
As I stood at my open window.
When I go
To the pub to meet my friends,
We will pretend
That there is no end,
Or at least hide for a while
In the smile
Produced by drink,
Which makes men think
That all,
This will last.
But, I shall recollect the bird’s call,
As I stood at my open window
And know
That all
That sings, must pass.
Some find
In the arms
Of that ancient profession
A kind
Of passing peace.
But a girl’s charms
Fade, and many a confession
Is made
By those who still believe, to the priest.
Though, in modernity, eternity
Is feared, by those who think
On dust
And such
As a never ending drink
From the waters of Lethe
Where men find
Peace
From the world’s call,
And all
Thought
Is reduced to nought,
In Hades where there
Is no hot
Fire, and desire
Is forgot
In an eternal, dreamless dream,
And Satan’s grin, is never seen.
For the song
K Morris - Poet 