Listening to rain
While reading poetry.
But why read poetry
When there is rain?
For there is poetry
In the rain.
—
Reading Clare
While listening to rain.
But why read Clare
For there
Is poetry in rain?
(The above is 2 versions of the same, maybe similar poem. The poem flows from me listening to the rain through my open bedroom window yesterday evening, while reading the poetry of John Clare).
I know a young man named Mark
Who is extremely fond of the park,
Where Claire and Miss Rose
Remove all of their clothes.
Or so I am told by Mark …!
A gorgeous young lady known as Katie
Has a reputation for being real matey
With well heeled gentlemen,
(Well, so says Ken).
And Ken’s wallet is really quite weighty …!
Walking through fallen leaves
In the familiar churchyard
The poet sees
The hard
Fact that all
Leaves fall.
There once was a young lady named Bland
Who was fond of the one night stand.
With a man called White
She stood there all night,
Watching the great tide sweep over the sand …!
There was a young lady named Yvette
Who was known as a Tory wet.
She opposed all cuts
And swam in waterbutts,
Which made that Tory really quite wet!
(The term “Tory wet” was used during the administrations of the late Lady Thatcher to describe those on the left of the Conservative party, whilst those on the right where labelled as “dry”. The term more commonly employed today to designate those on the left of the party is “one-nation” Tories or Conservatives).
When I found pretty miss Lin
Lurking in my brand new bin,
I did shout,
“You! Get out!”,
But Lin she dragged me in …!
We 2 took a shortcut through
The place of stones and bones.
I have some time to rhyme
Of a young woman who
May read this one day,
And, pondering on weathered old gravestones,
Say, “we are but clay”.
When a young lady whose name was Claire
Got eaten by a rather large brown bear,
Her poor boyfriend Guy
Said, with a sigh,
“I guess that’s the end of our affair …”.
When I was young
I flung
Myself at fleeting pleasure.
I thought
Love could be bought
And heeded not
The ticking clock.
Now, at leisure
I pen rhyme
To passing time,
To lust,
And dust,
And clocks
That stop.
K Morris - Poet 