Give me a wealthy patron to support my rhyme
That I may please
And gently tease.
But a thought most sad
Drives me mad
For I was born in the modern time!
Shal I compose jingles
To sell pringles?
Or advertise singles
Clubs
Where couples in bath tubs …
No, late at night
I shall continue to write
In rhyme
Until come my time …
There was a young man named Moor
Who’s poetry was most obscure.
Much to his surprise
Readers did criticise
So he composed a whole lot more!
It goes without saying that I am delighted whenever readers express appreciation for my work. Its wonderful to know that my poetry brings pleasure to others.
On occasions readers appreciation of my poetry has caused them to contact me requesting that I critique their work. I am greatly flattered when this occurs. However I invariably respond with a courteous decline.
As with all poets, I have my own unique style. This usually entails the extensive use of rhyme. I find an intrinsic beauty in traditional rhyming poetry which, no doubt is a major factor in explaining my use of the form. That is not to say that I never engage in free verse poetry. I do, however this is rare and when I do utilise this form it is, almost invariably in the context of a poem in which rhyme predominates. Where I to critique many free verse poems I would, in all honesty have to say that I did not consider them to constitute poetry. That is not to say that free verse can not be moving and extremely beautiful. Indeed it can and it is worthy of praise as regards the possession of these qualities. It is, however (in my opinion) moving and beautiful prose (rather than poetry) and any comments by me would, in all honesty have to reflect my view of the matter.
More generally, my perspective of the merits and/or demerits of a given poem is just that (my own view), others may disagree. I do not wish to be the person responsible for dampening the enthusiasm of a budding poet. I do, from time to time come across poetry which is (in my opinion) truly awful. When confronted by work of this nature I click away without commenting because (as I say above) I have no desire to puncture anyone’s balloon.
My own style of writing (rhyming poetry) is, I am well aware considered as old-fashioned and overly restrictive by many modern poets and critics. One mans meat is another mans poison. Let each poet plough his/her own furrow, I will not trespass on their territory (other than to comment and/or like if I truly feel that their work possesses merit). Otherwise I shall refrain from passing judgement.
There was a young lady named Kate
Who wished to abolish the state.
She became an anarchist bold
But lo and behold
The state outlasted Kate
There was a young lady of Dutch extraction
To whom I felt an attraction.
She was a lover of art
And lived in my heart,
But to her I was a mere abstraction!
Below are 2 poems, “The Girl Who Wasn’t There” and “Two Voices”.
Both poems can be found in my collection of poetry, “The Girl Who Wasn’t There”, which was published in September 2015 and can be found HERE.
—
I am the girl who wasn’t there.
I did not sit upon that chair,
Playing provocatively with my hair.
I did not drink that expensive wine,
While gazing on your paintings fine.
I did not recline under the quilt so red,
Or moan with ecstasy in your bed.
If, by chance, an earring she should find,
Worry not; it is not mine.
—
You talk to me of lambs gambolling, of ramblers ambling, through fields green, beside the meandering stream.
You speak to me of verdant bowers, where lovers while away the hours, in love’s young dream.
I tell you of an urban street, where the gale buffets and people battle to retain their feet.
I impart to you the wind’s loan moan, as I wander home alone, in weather bleak.
There was a young man named Sleary
Who advocated Marx’s theory.
When his ideas failed to come to fruition
He said “the people require more tuition,
For there is nothing wrong with the theory!”.
Two is company but three
Is a crowd you see.
Yet for some three is the magic number.
Fear of judgement may encumber
The desire to fish
But still waters run deep
And the wish
To sleep
May overtake
And secret fires wake
There was a young poet named Zeff
Who wrote a poem about death.
The Grim Reaper heaved a great sigh
And said “I have long pondered on why
You poets are so obsessed with death”.
She was a party girl
Her head in a whirl
Of boys
And expensive toys.
She offered
“No strings fun”
In exchange for money proffered
By those who would
(if they only could)
outrun
The solemn tick tock
Of the ever present clock.
She was gone one day,
Who can say
Where?
Few care
To know.
The man of the world shrugs.
“Drugs.
Best not go
There.
She had naturally blonde hair
I think.
Will you take another drink?”
K Morris - Poet 