When a young lady smoking some Pot
Said, “do you think that I’m hot?”,
They Said to her, “Moriah!
You’ve just started a fire!
You need to stop dropping that Pot!”.
When a young lady smoking some Pot
Said, “do you think that I’m hot?”,
They Said to her, “Moriah!
You’ve just started a fire!
You need to stop dropping that Pot!”.
There was a young man named Dave
Who attended a very large rave,
Where a girl with a beard
Said, “some say that I’m weird,
But I really don’t like to shave!”.
“Would you like to,
Again? before I go …?”
Her kiss!
Her hands!
His momentary bliss.
Time never stands
Still. Goodbyes are spoken
And banks open.
When I die
What will people see
In my poetry?
Will they read me
At all?
I will not know
Whether tis so
For in my pall
My poetry
Must surely go.
Though perhaps it may
Not be so.
A young lady who comes from Britain
Is known as a great sex kitten.
My dear old dog
Is known as Hogg,
And my kitten she comes from Britain …!
On Monday 29 May, I was interviewed by Ariadne Sawyer, of Vancouver Co-op Radio’s the World Poetry Reading Series about my recently released poetry collection, More Poetic Meanderings. My interview, during which I discuss and read my poetry, is due to be aired at 1 pm (pacific standard time) on Thursday 1 June, which equates to 9 pm here in the United Kingdom. You can find details of the World Poetry Reading series here https://coopradio.org/shows/world-poetry-cafe/.
I am pleased to announce that my interview is already available as a podcast on Mixcloud and can be found here https://www.mixcloud.com/VictorSchwartzman/world-poetry-cafe-for-june-1-with-kevin-morris/. I listened to my interview using Google Chrome, however other browsers should also work.
More Poetic Meanderings is available in Kindle and paperback and can be found here https://www.amazon.com/More-Poetic-Meanderings-K-Morris-ebook/dp/B0BZT9G139/.
My thanks to Ariadne Sawyer of Vancouver Co-op Radio’s the World Poetry Reading Series for hosting me on the World Poetry Café.
Sometimes I think
On permanent things:
The birds that sing,
The grand old churches
And the trees.
Then the breeze,
Mingling with the rain
Shows what will remain.
When you and me
Are as the tree.
When I bought a fine old castle
The resident vampire caused me great hassle.
Both her and a ghost
Would eat all my toast!
So I decided to leave for Newcastle!
I have awoken, after wine,,
With a girl who’s heart
Was not mine,
And romanticising her in rhyme,
Have created art
Through a lie.
But love and lust
Both end in dust.
And there I
Must one day lie.
Sometimes a poem stays with me, not because it is, necessarily, one of my favourites, but due to the memories associated with it. One such poem is Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson:
“Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.”
I remember going to meet a friend in a local pub. It was a beautiful summer evening and I was looking forward to seeing my friend and enjoying good conversation over a few cooling pints.
When I got to the pub we did indeed enjoy a few pints whilst sitting in the pub garden, close to the fish pond.
My friend is, I’m pleased to say still very much alive and kicking. So why does that poem resonate with me so powerfully? Perhaps because it poignantly evokes the fragility of life and how death comes to us all (including those who we least expect it to visit as a consequence of their own actions.)
Having written the above, I am not entirely convinced by my own answer. Yet, whenever I think of Richard Corry, I remember walking to the pub to meet my friend and discussing the poem with him (albeit briefly) over a few convivial pints on a beautiful summer evening.
Memories are indeed strange things.