The ageless wind
In these waving trees
Whispers to me
Of eternity.
Passing by a lorry
I smile
At that metal thing.
So temporary.
While the wild wind
Is forever free.
Temporary
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Category Archives: newauthoronline
Archaic Language or References in Poetry
Some time ago, a friend commented that a number of my poems where, in his view a little old fashioned in their use of language and references. When I asked him for an example, he sighted my not infrequent references to “the Reaper” and “the Grim Reaper”. At that juncture I was somewhat taken off guard and did not, so far as I can recollect provide my friend with a coherent response to his comments on my poetry. However, a little while after the conversation with him took place, I happened to hear Blue Oyster Cult’s “Baby Don’t Fear” playing, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dy4HA3vUv2c&list=RDDy4HA3vUv2c&start_radio=1
Whilst I certainly would never advocate that poets go back to writing in the style of the Elizabethans, or to that of the Victorians, I don’t believe that writers of poetry should be constrained in their poetic creations by what some people hold to be archaic references or language should they choose to employ such references or vocabulary. I, for one shall continue to engage with my old acquaintance the Reaper, for we are on nodding terms having met whilst I spent some 6 weeks in the Walton Neuro Centre after having under gone an operation for the removal of a brain abscess.
You can find a video of me reading my poem “time”, which references the Reaper here Time
For “Passing Through: Some Thoughts on Life and Death”, which was written primarily during my stay in hospital, please visit Passing Through: Some thoughts on life and death: Amazon.co.uk: Morris, K: 9798284279151: Books
Untitled
Today I found my old shoes by the settee
And remembered you and me.
Your breasts where firm. Your skin youthful and tight
When I indulged last night.
Afterwards, your perfume lingered
On my pillows and fingers.
You kissed me goodbye.
And today I ponder on my settee
Bought in my youth
And the truth, I am growing old.
The Haunted Old House
When I stayed in a haunted old house
With ghastly ghouls and a very small mouse,
I awoke with a fright
As the clock struck midnight,
And ghouls screamed with fear of that mouse!
The Poem of Age 35, by Turkish poet Cahit Sitki Taranci.
Yesterday, whilst Zooming with fellow poets, I was introduced to “The Poem of Age 35”, by Turkish poet Cahit Sitki Taranci. I have never visited Turkey and know very little of Turkish culture. I was, however deeply impressed and moved by Cahit Sitki Taranci’s “The Poem of Age 35”. Hence I am sharing it here The Poem of Age 35 by Cahit Sitki Taranci – Eppur Si Muove
White Poet Pretended to be Black to Get Published
Aaron Barry, a white poet pretended to be black and had poems published which had previously been rejected when submitted under his own name. This story has not surprisingly provoked a good deal of controversy and I’ll leave it to you my readers to make up your own minds on the rightness or otherwise of the situation described in this article How white man became famous as a queer Nigerian poet – Businessday NG, and Elsewhere online.
Hutt’s Lamp
When a man whacking me with a lamp
Demanded that I give him a stamp.
I said, “dear Hutt,
Please accept this uppercut!”,
Then I stamped on him and his lamp!
Lust
If you had come
That night, there might have been delight
On my part.
But old time runs
And I find women of your kind
Leave no broken heart
When they depart.
Though I have sometimes been left bereft
When fun is done
For my clock
Must stop, and I return to dust.
Yet still I find
My man’s mind
Is full of lust.
I Once Met a Man Named Max
I once met a man named Max
Who refused to pay any tax.
A young lady called Miss Lou
Spanks paying gentlemen with her shoe –
I hope that she pays her tax!
Honey
She uses the word “honey”
As easily as he spends his money
On pretty birds whose words
Are meaningful as ads seen at night
On boards offering the delight
Of ice cream dreams that melt away
Into the mundanity of day
Looking at her mobile
She smiles her painted smile,
And says, “that was fun.
Now I must run”.
Then, not forgetting her money
She leaves her honey
Who, as heels fade away
Thinks, we both pay,
Each in our own way .
K Morris - Poet 