A photograph says
He who sends pays.
A photograph implies
He who attaches does not lie.
A photograph states this is me
And not some other he.
A photograph says all that you need to know is here,
You need not fear.
A photograph says
There are many ways
To skin a cat
And I will eat my hat
If the camera never lies.
“Whose eyes
Are those?”
“Only heaven knows”.
There was a young lady called Claire
Who liked to go here and there,
By train or bus.
Oh how the officials did fuss
As she never paid her fare!
There was a young lady called Jill
Who never would pick up the bill.
Her friends did say,
“you must pay your way”.
I fear they are waiting still!
There was a young man called Max
Who liked to play on the Sax.
He played for his girl,
Who did a twirl.
It made her really relax!
There was a young lady called Nell
Who worked in a hotel.
The guests where crude,
But she was no prude
And Nell would never tell …
Does the grandfather clock’s pendulum
Still, with measured swing
A sense of order bring
To that country place
Where a mantion’s stately grace,
Brought peace,
For a while at least.
I would resile
This urban life
Of strife,
And solace take
In the birds who awake
At morn.
We are from tradition torn,
And shorn
Of a sense of the past
Wander in a vast
Whirlpool
Where the sleepless screen does rule
And institutions are thrown away
For they belong to yesterday.
Please
Don’t call me “hon”.
Save it for the bees,
Who tease
The flowers on this beautiful July day.
I pray
Do not say
“Hon”
Or I will run
Away!
—
An interesting post about “Telling a good poem from a bad one”, (http://www.dailywritingtips.com/telling-a-good-poem-from-a-bad-one/).
The comments following on from the article are, on the whole also well worth reading with (in my opinion) the following exception:
“ahi, as far as I am concerned poetry is for one person and that person is the person that wrote it and to be honest that is where it should be left.
I have tried many times to read poetry which has been sent to newspapers and to magazines but it is too much like hard work to bother because it is generally absolute tripe.
Poetry belongs with latin, forgotten, and should stay there.
There are a few con-merchants around as well who offer to publish ones poems if they come up to the mark. In this case the mark is if you are prepared to pay for the thrill of seeing your rubbish in print and people constantly fall for it.
I even pointed this fact out to one guy and he was still adamant that the quality of his work was “good”. I am sorry but it was absolutely terrible,”ignorance is bliss”, cheers, david”.
The above comment does, I believe say more about the person making it than it does about the value of poetry. “It was too much like hard work” says it all!
There was a young man called Lefroy
Who thought every girl was his toy.
He met a lady called Kate
And learned too late
How a girl can a man’s ego destroy
As inconsequencial as a child who did say
As she walked past the aquarium yesterday,
“I have fish like that”.
Me, on my way from my flat
To the pub, thought of France
And innocent children who can no longer dance.
—
There is a shop selling tropical fish, reptiles etc some 10 minutes walk from my home. While strolling along to the pub yesterday evening (Sunday 17 July),I overheard the above snatch of conversation.
K Morris - Poet 