Category: Poetry

Sarcastic or something else?

I’ve laid claim to writing in clear plain English and saying what I mean but there is an important qualification. I’m British and have a very British sense of humour. Irony is a key weapon in our armoury.  We will often say the opposite of what we mean to mock the ideas we are pretending to hold so, when I talk in All Fall Down about the answer to all the killing being more good men with guns, I rely on the reader to understand I mean the exact opposite.

This is very British. If you doubt that check out Quora and the habitual way the British respond to what they regard as stupid questions from Americans about the UK.

Some people have referred to the way I write in comments as ‘sarcastic’. I get quite hurt by that. I think of it as gentle mocking irony while ‘sarcasm’ in my book is something quite different.

I wrote the poem sarcasm to explain what I see as the difference.

Sarcasm

You say my work’s sarcastic
But I don’t really like that word.
Sarcasm comes with a caustic bite
It stings, it’s meant to hurt.

I may say the opposite of what I think
But I say it for humorous effect.
It’s gentle, mocking irony
Not really meant to hurt.

It’s a very English humour
The kind that we do best
It’s almost force of habit
A gentle mocking jest.

Please don’t be offended
Or even worse confused
I only hope you get it and
You know it’s not meant to hurt.

 

 

 

Poetry in plain English

You’ll have gathered by now, if you’re not a first time visitor, that I do plain straightforward writing in clear, easy to follow English. I’d happily adopt another style if it worked for me,and I thought there were others who wanted to read it, but, as I expressed in the poem Voice; published on here before anyone was actually reading this, I feel like I’ve found what works for me. Voice has had 19,000 plus reads  on Wattpad so hopefully I’m getting it right for others too.

The truth is I had any pretentions to florid, discursive writing knocked out of me in a working career where ‘writing’ was a key part of what I did but for a very different audience. The ‘writing’ I did to earn a living was far from being creative. I wrote reports for decision makers.

My work was expected to be clear, concise and to the point. Brevity was the order of the day and the instruction was never to use a long word where a short one would do. We would never ask people to ‘peruse’ documents we suggested that they  should ‘look at’ them.

One of the missions I was given was to re-write the local authorities contract conditions in plain English. The lawyers hated me for it!

My ambition to write the great English novel is never likely to be realised. The Next Big Thing, as the poem of that name expresses, is unlikely ever to be written but ‘verse’, comes very naturally to me. I’m not always sure I can glorify it with the word ‘poetry’ but that is for others to judge and worry about. My mission, as the tag line has it, is to entertain. I’m sometimes seeking to entertain with a purpose but I try to express what I am saying as clearly and effectively as possible.

Todays poem, Red Lines, is a tribute to the manager who honed my writing skills with a liberal helping of red ink.

Red Lines

The report you have written
Is ‘basically fine’
The words are yours
But the ideas are mine.

I’ve covered it liberally
With red ink
Please rewrite
But don’t rethink.

I’ve altered all your capital letters
Crossed out all the “howsoevers”
It’s punchy now
All bullet points
You can rewrite again
If it disappoints.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wish I could write obscurer.

I’ve read other people’s poems
And they don’t much look like mine
I wish I could make them obscurer.
Be done with silly rhymes.

I’d like to shroud in mystery
But I just say what I mean
I wish I was better at writing
And could write obscurer lines.

I’d dab words round my canvas
Pluck metaphors out of the air
Draw a veil over what I was saying
And leave you crying for more.

I’d like to leave you scratching your head
And wondering what I mean
But it seems to come out
In the same plain words
With no hidden meanings at all.

Maybe I’m just shallow?
Don’t have any hidden depths.
There are other, cleverer writers
And I’m just way too dumb.

Think where I could take this
If I didn’t just say what I meant?
Fathomless conjectures,
Museful meanderings,
Pensive pontification
Big words, long
and perhaps extravagantly constructed sentences?

But would that still be me?
My tired and torrid attempts
To twist, turn and complicate
My communications for the benefit
Of audiences immune to the
Innocence of my simplistic doggerel
Are condemned to fall on fallow ground.
Seeds ungerminated
Failing to come to fruition.

I can’t be doing with that stuff.
I’ll just say what I mean.

Nothing to say

His work exuded sophistication;
That clever poet.
There’d be endless layers of complication.
Name a technique and he could show it;
He displayed such knowledge; erudition.

The most perfect rhymes he’d always retrieve.
The power of his intellect there on display.
And, at choosing his words, he was quite a magician,
His extensive vocabulary hard to believe.

It was just such a pity he’d nothing to say!

The Next Big Thing

6081CE55-339F-498B-8CCC-2F2933ED1187Writing can be a struggle sometimes but there’s always that dream that keeps us going.

The Next Big Thing

I’m sat here in a coffee shop
Like a J.K Rowling thing.
My book’s going to be the
Next big hit
But I’m not quite certain when.

You’ll be taken by my hero
Quite an amazing chap.
Or he could be a girl
I’m not quite sure
I’ve not cracked that bit yet.

It’s bound to make me millions
All I need’s a plot
Half an idea what to write about
Then it’s certain to take off.

I’ve not quite got it started
I don’t know where to begin
But if I ever write this book of mine.
It’s gonna be the next big thing.

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All Fall Down

Another school shooting in Florida. More young people have lost their lives for Americans’ right to bear arms. I’ve wheeled this poem out before but sadly nothing ever changes. It’s hard for outsiders to understand. I guess the thinking goes like this.

All Fall Down.

The answer to all the killing
Is more good men with guns
The goodies will shoot the baddies
The baddies will all fall down.

The baddies might get some goodies
But they’ll die in a very good cause
The noble cause of the right to bear arms
Bang, bang they all fall down.

Here’s to the Wild West shoot out
The good guys in white hats
Sad about Vegas n’ Sandy Hill
We’ll mow those baddies down.

You have to have some violence
In order to keep the peace
Here’s to the ring of gunfire
And the ones who all fell down.

 

 

Smitten – A poem for my valentine

It happened when our eyes first met
Not sure I understand it yet
Your face once seen I can’t forget
Been bitten.

I loved you before I knew your name
How could I know you’d feel the same?
This thing’s too real it’s not a game.
So sudden.

This thing we have can not be fought
I’m in your net I’m truly caught
You fill my every waking thought
I’m smitten.

You simply touch me and I melt
The strangest thing I ever felt;
I can’t believe the hand love dealt
Unbidden.

Poor Prince Harry – thoughts on Windsor’s Royal Wedding

Poor Prince Harry, it’s no joke
Women plan weddings, ignore us blokes.
They went and picked cup final day
Hard on a chap, what can I say?

Always a risk to marry in May
But early wedding should be ok.
It’ll be over conveniently
You can catch the match it’s on TV.

You could have gone, had real good seats
Presented the trophy, met the teams
But Meghan’s from the USA
Won’t understand it’s a special day.

 

Dear Queen Elizabeth

I work part time these days and don’t earn a lot from poetry so a little extra income would be welcome. I live very near Windsor Castle, Her Majesty’s weekend home so would be up for the Poet Laureate job if they would have me. I wrote to the Queen a while back but haven’t had a reply yet. Hope there’ll be one soon. This was my letter.

Dear Queen Elizabeth,
Just a note to say
When next you need a Laureate,
Please consider me.

I write a lot of poetry
So how hard can it be?
In terms of productivity
You could do worse than me.

I’d mark the big occasions
And mark each special day.
Be it births, or deaths,
Or marriages; the special jubilees.
Providing something rhymes with it
You’ll be OK with me.

The better poets turn it down
Get up themselves and sniffy.
I’ll just get on and churn stuff out.
I write most every day.
Whatever you want a poem about.
Please just give me a shout.
I can easily write at Royal request
And churn another out.

I’m very, very local
I just live down the road
I could pop round to the castle
Whenever you’re next home.
Could do a proper interview
Or just come for a brew
I’m flexible so any time
Whatever works for you.

They’ll be wanting a poem for the big event. Click Amazon’s link for details of the day and souvenirs of the big occassion.

Voice

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I called my name it echoed back

It sounded down the lonely track.

I made the journey all alone

To find a voice that I could own.

 

Who would hear my anguished call?

Was anyone there who’d hear at all?

How could I give my feelings voice

Strike perfect chord, make perfect choice?

 

Plaintive cry of abandoned child?

Abrasive, angry or quieter mild?

Serious, thoughtful, say what’s meant?

Or play for laughs and merriment?

 

Take moral high ground lecture, preach

Or tone it down yet quietly teach?

Forget all rules, be sloppy cheat

Or be meticulous and neat?

 

Roar of a lion or grunt of bear?

Scare you stiff and prick up your hair.

Or gentler, quieter rhythm keep

Ethereal, light but the meaning deep?

 

I called my name it echoed back

It sounded down the lonely track

I heard my name, it took some time

But now the voice I hear is mine.

 

I have a voice and out it rings.

I’ve found my voice a poet sings.

I hear my voice it took some time

But now the voice I hear is mine.