Poetry Corner
Let’s see what’s behind the Poetry Door today….
It’s a lovely poem by Mary Carr. A great friend of mine, poetry has come to her recently. Mary has produced beautiful work, and is happy to share this poem with you:
I will…
I WILL RIDE THE WAVES
I WILL FIGHT THE TURBULENCE
TILL I COME OUT THE OTHER SIDE
AND SEE THE LIGHT AGAIN
AND ALL IT’S GLORY AND LIVE
ANOTHER DAY OF HOPE AND
JOY
Mary Carr 2019
Dobby!!! What are you doing there?! Where’s the poetry basket?
What’s that, Dobby? A new and exciting collection is about to go in it? Very soon?
And meanwhile, here’s a comic strip?
Yes, we have another review coming soon, so watch this space and no flipping!
Meanwhile…..
Is there a moral in this tale? The talent was there all along? Who really knows?
See you soon with the Poetry Basket Review……
Dobby is looking everywhere for the Poetry Basket. However, it will be a fruitless search, as I have the basket right here. And what’s more, it has something new and wonderful inside it.
Turn over to the Poetry Basket Review page, where we review Sharron Green’s lovely collection ‘Introducing Rhymes_n_Roses’
A stunning and personal pamphlet.
Now flip over to the other channel, while I tell Dobby to call off the search –
Hello. Today we’re looking through the Poetry Window. Dobby and I wonder if we can see any poetry out there……
Dobby reckons not, but by sheer coincidence, I happen to have a poem called Windows! How uncanny is that ?!
Read on –
WINDOWS
Why are everyone else’s windows so warm
and enticing? Comfortable and cosy?
Walking back from me Nan’s, I see
orange bay windows, the colour of Quality Street,
concealing a happy family snuggled up.
Toys cleared away, clean pYjamas and cocoa.
Why do I have to come home to such a
shithole?!
A fusion of strip lighting and cold lino,
the coal fire warming our fronts while our backs
shivered.
No-one would look at our crude lighted window with
such envy!
Anyway, it faces the back!
HM 2018
Well, the Zoom poetry evening was a great success. Apprehensions of not reading poetry for three months melted away, as I saw familiar faces on the Write Out Loud screen. We were all in the same boat. Unnerved by not hearing myself speak, and that dreaded Mute button, I ploughed on anyway. Memories of live readings before the lights went out came flooding back. Bringing hope that we may return there soon. So lovely to hear some of those voices again. I basked in that sea of talent.
Now, is it me? Or do those little blocks of poets remind me of Celebrity Squares?
So, the Poetry Basket – one of the stunning and prolific poets reading last night – Donall Dempsey has some very relevant and clever Haiku to share with us… Dobby? Poetry Basket please…..
Dobby has been watching The Beverley Hillbillies. They really don’t make ’em like that anymore.
Now, prepare to be stunned –
COVID WALK
old man
out walking
his shadow
young boy
taking his pet log
for a walk
a cloud
hamming it up
as Godzilla
ghost town
the only sound
a pub sign’s creaking
she sneezes snot
wipes it on her sleeve
glad I’m wearing a mask
the sky
the colour of
a blackbird’s song
As you can see, Dobby’s poetry review basket is currently empty. So, I’ll share another poem from my Bunty I Miss You pamphlet. This one is a bit of a downturn, as it features my personal view of the Sixties, in which it was not remotely swinging!
Sixties Seasons
You were swinging for some, but
a bastard for others!
Blistering heat, brutal sports days.
Bulging in unlovely shorts,
puffing in last, with a permanently
red neck, and heat stroke to follow.
“Sunshine should never be missed”,
Teacher chucks his class outside,
without a scrap of shade, their skins
burnt off.
Him, having his fag in the classroom.
Humiliations of being sent to bed
in broad daylight!
Along with brutally hot nights, and twisted,
oily blankets.
But Winter was a stinker:
Permanent goose pimples on bruised skinny
Legs.
Back doors left wide open on a bastard
winter’s night, to get more coal from the yard.
Despite the hissy, spiteful, warming fire,
backs remained cold and rigid.
Dim foggy mornings, trudging along miserably,
contemplating the grey, violent playground.
Only to walk back home in the pitch dark,
avoiding the bullies.
Oh yes, you gave us proper and tyrannical seasons:
But all year round were violent parents,
and slappy teachers.
Bastard free school milk. Grim and curdling,
uninviting, only good for blowing bubbles.
Scratchy, black and white television sets,
shouting at us about how good we had it.
I stuck up two fingers when no-one else was looking.
Bugger you, Sixties, you were bloody awful!
They don’t make ’em like that anymore! Tune in this week for more poetry news and reviews.
Heather Moulson