#Poetry that #rhymes, has #meter and #structure, who would have thought it... of me.... the ardent deconstructural modernist. No doubt my membership from the misunderstood will be cancelled. Instead I shall join the ranks of the ignored.
Mary Berry, pulled in tight,
knees together, face alight
to the tablet in her hand. Gears
grind, commuting daily, she fears
the woman to her right
demurely dressed, may catch sight
of the word Can Upset Nursing Team.
Robin Buffchest, alpha male,
sets his points to grease the rail,
enter through the female arts
of parts, unconnected to the heart;
which pulse, quail, and never fail
to excite, when coaxed under the assail
of manicured fingers.
Mary Berry, alights the train,
collects coffee, joins the trail
of business minded folk.
Finds her chair, hangs her coat,
assigns post its to the bin. Jane
relates another tale, this time the drains
overflowed and blocked.
Numbers come, and numbers go, feet
walk miles, round, beneath the seat
shoes on, shoes off, page after page.
Daydreams snap from looks exchanged
familiar faces, backs of heads. Meet
mid morning through the glass, cheek
held up by helpful fist.
Sushi time, crisps; orange juice without the bits,
Jane's behind, a book or more, Robin's tricks
she wants to know, when uninvited down sits
Damian from claims. Buttons checked. He insists
to know, the way to go, on Donovan and Hicks
and have they heard the cooler talk, about Peter Briggs?
Six months they say.
The afternoon slips away, toilet break
telephone calls, wriggled toes, time to make
solid supper plans. Visualize what's in the fridge;
bagged salad, pork chops, half a cabbage,
celery sticks. Decisions still to make, in the wake
of the numbers on the screen. At last it's time to take
her coat and leave.
Mary Berry, rejects the call, to join them all,
in the pub for Paul's birthday. Spoiled
for choice, she window shops, as she walks,
lost in thought, to catch the train. The seat she sought
by the window is free. Tucked in small
knees together, tablet out, she allows herself to fall
once more into the little game.
There is a curious thing about the poem however. The first four stanza's were created, formed, on a walk to and from the shops. The final three were written sitting down. Odd how the length of line suddenly extends when bum hits chair.
Having found the groove of rhythm and rhyme, I have decided to drop it, to write something else. At which point my conscious mind has kicked in, my generosity flown out of the window, and vain cleverness has pained my sense.
Take this little ditty....
*emoticon* *sad face* death.
Blackness (cliche) *emote*.
*repeat emoticon* wind's breath,
(cliche) (hearsay) life is smote.
Futility, all is, futility.
I worry that the school will ring,
to complain, the ambulance crew
by the state of his underpants.
Oh I know, I shouldn't react, and I have already said that I am being ungenerous, to the notion that 'poetry' is profound, and depth is drowning.
The missus has threatened to bring up at the divorce court a piece of emotional cruelty I left on her facebooks, involving felt pens and her chicken pox. I pointed out that she would have to marry me first. At which point she proposed; which I rejected on the grounds that I am not the sort of girl to accept the cap of a Lucozade bottle for a ring.- even with the promise to drill it out. She then trumped me as to whether Pythagoras or Archimedes invented the concept of not putting too much water in a jam jar for daffodils. I was sure it was Pythagoras. Clever bloke that Archimedes, how did the human race manage before he invented screwing?
When not composing the ditty's above, and walking back from the nursery drop off, I did consider writing a poem about the love we share. Which is of the deep and profound variety. The trouble is, it doesn't smoulder, there is no fog or wide plain between us, about the most romantic thing we do is close our eyes when we kiss.
Which I suppose is a poem in itself.
Cue random picture of the day for the facebooks beauty parade....