Pantoum

Sometimes you have to plan ahead.

You plan what’s coming down the line.

You can’t just write what’s in your head.

You have to plan to make it rhyme.

 

You plan what’s coming down the line.

Choose words that rhyme as well as scan.

You have to plan to make it rhyme.

It will not work unless you can.

 

Choose words that rhyme as well as scan.

You must make sure you’ve thought it through.

It will not work unless you can

choose words that fit, have meaning too.

 

You must make sure you’ve thought it through.

So plan the end as you commence.

Choose words that fit, have meaning too;

You must make sure it all makes sense.

 

So plan the end as you commence.

You can’t just write what’s in your head

You must make sure it all makes sense.

Sometimes you have to plan ahead.

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains and the second and  fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third verse of the next. The pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.

Rush?

Rush? Rush?

Must I be quick?

Or is another meaning hid?

 

The basket mid the rushes hid

Is that where baby Moses is?

 

Or could the rushes hide a trap

That heedless prey may stumble on?

 

Or just be laid there on the floor

Soft bedding for a gentle nap?

 

The lesson is that fools rush in

First take a pause and then begin.

via Rush

The Daily Prompt

Storm

The floods break in; the waters rise
Can fiercer climate be denied?
Storms will lash; they have before
And yet the warmer clouds hold more.

We feel the rising disconnect
The peoples’ sense of discontent.
Who knows their will? Who rides the storm?
Who parts the waters; can perform?

The rising tides will not relent
Till crumpling waters force a rent.
The dam can’t hold, it’s washed away.
Who rides the storm? Can save the day?

Inchoate Poem

You’ve caught me out. I’m slightly shocked.
You’ve kind of caught me on the hop.
The ink’s not dry, it’s still quite wet.
I haven’t wrote a poem yet…

It kind of starts a bit like this
But what comes next you’ll have to guess.
Don’t pressure me or make me sweat.
I haven’t wrote a poem yet.

I’ll write one soon, if you can wait
but hurry me up; it won’t be great.
Peeking now is just not fair
Half an idea, it’s not quite there!

Not quite there. It’s such a pity
Still born, half formed, inchoate ditty.

via Inchoate

The Royal Cold

 

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Sing a song of sneezing

The Queen has got a cold

Four and twenty tissues

For a royal cold!

Could be even worse news

Phillip has it too.

Two red royal noses

Whatever will we do?

Phillip’s in his counting house,

Counting out his money;

The queen is taking remedies;

Lemon hot with honey.

The maid is in the garden

Hanging out the clothes,

When down comes the Queen’s cold

And reddens up her nose.

They send for Phillip’s doctor,

To get them well again;

He treats them right royally

And sets them right again.

So all’s well in the country

There’s not much in the news

Just a sniffy royal nose

Bunged up in the mews.

Farewell to Madrid

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There’s more to do when in Madrid
Than watch parades of men in hoods
Especially when the weather’s good
In spring.

It’s good to be outside and warm
To bask in welcome spring time heat
Find good things to drink or eat.
My thing.

Great wide open public spaces
Tall treed gardens, sun filled plazas
Snack in sun filled squares on tapas.
Fit in.

The city has so much to offer.
Places to go and things to do
Palace Real, Cathedral, Prado
Great thing.

Velazquez, Goya art to spare.
There’s Real Madrid, Athletico
The Santiago Bernabeu.
They sing.

But all good times must have an end
Our time is up we have to go
Goodbye to sights we got to know
Travelling.

Tamborrada (Easter Sunday, Madrid)

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Tamborrada Easter SundayMadrid

And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it.” Matthew 28:2 (ESV)

Easter Sunday Tamborrada
Beat their drums in Plaza Mayor
See the drummers of Madrid
Beat their drums to say he lives.
Christ is risen from the dead
Say the drums of old Madrid.

Banging, banging Tamborrada
Beat their drums in old Madrid
Drummers marching; past a hundred
Beat their drums to say he lives.
Christ is risen, from the dead
Say the drums of old Madrid.

Buildings shaken by the sound
Of the beating, beating drums;
Rising to a great crescendo
Shakes the streets and buildings round.
Rumbling like a mighty earthquake
Great vibrations through the ground.

Banging drums the Tamborradas
Sound the message that he lives.
Beat their drums in old Madrid
Sound the message that he lives
Christ is risen from the dead
Say the drums of Old Madrid.

 

Happy Easter Everyone!

 

Passed Masters

 

I passed a masterpiece today
I passed a few what can I say?
We did the Prado, Thyssen too.
How many pictures? Barely know.

Caught Picasso, Tintoretto
Saw a Goya, a Titian or two.
Others we passed, what can I say?
We missed a few. It’s how things go.

Visitation, crucifixion
Salvation now annunciation.
Here’s another; come this way.
We wander past them to and fro.

That’s a Monet, and there’s a Bosch.
We can look but must not touch.
This one’s Durer, that’s El Greco
Velasquez here, some Reubens too.

Now a room of gentry, royalty.
Carlos third; we know that nose.
On and on and on it goes.
All we tourists passing through.

There’s classic figures nude, unclothed,
Pictures of heaven only knows.
Round and round and round we go.
So many rooms we just pass through.

Masters painted, sought perfection
Showed technique and dedication.
But we can’t really take it in
And what we see we hardly know.

The artists could have never known
Their pictures would like this be shown;
Now just another wandered past
That should stand proudly on its own.

I passed a masterpiece today.
I passed a few what can I say?
We did the Prado and Thyssen too.
How many pictures? Barely know.

 

 

 

What makes Britain Great

For Ellen Hawley

Great Britain is ‘Great’ and always will be
The largest island in the British Isles
Ireland is smaller and so truly
Great Britain is ‘Great’ and always will be
It’s nothing to do with hope or glory
Our politicians’ boastful lies
Great Britain is ‘Great and always will be
It’s the largest island in the British Isles.

The ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’, official title of our country, consists of Great Britain (England, Scotland and Wales) and Northern Ireland, six provinces on the smaller island of Ireland. It’s ‘Great’ in roughly the same way Great Yarmouth is. Someone should tell the politicians.

No daffodils

I never see a daffodil
Or anything as wonderful.
I’m stuck inside a metal box
And all I really see is lots
Of traffic; other passing cars
Same tarmac road for miles and miles.

We cut the country we pass through
Our passage like a gaping wound
And yet the road has brought me here
To gaze upon those rolling hills.
And is there poetry to catch
When stuck within a metal box?

So much for all the nature Poets
I can’t be one and don’t I know it!
Stuck here instead on tarmac road
That stretches on for miles and miles
Frustrations of a modern life
Instead of golden daffodils.

And yet the road has brought me here
To see in passing what I’ve lost
And gaze in passing through a screen
At nature as she might have been.
I gaze upon the rolling hills
Yet leave a scar where I have been.