Street Harrassment: A Documentary Poem (Poetry Form 94: Short Hymnal Measure)

OK – potential trigger warning here, for that sexual harrassment/assault crossover point.

These are all things that have casually been said to me or in my hearing. Obviously slightly tweaked to make them scan and rhyme, but in no way exaggerated.
The form is a short hymnal measure. It amused me to turn sexist wankers on the street into a hymn.

That blonde one: she looks great!
I wouldn’t mind, you know –
But I would make do with her mate
Until you’d had your go.

You’re such a lovely lass!
There’s no need to be shy:
It’s not my fault your tits and ass
Are easy on the eye.

Assault? For goodness sake!
It’s not as if I’m bent!
I cannot help myself – so take
It as a compliment!

A pretty girl like you
Has no need to be gay:
When you could get a man – it’s true!
I’d have you any day!

Hey darling! (She’s alright
A shame about the bum.)
You doing anything tonight?
OK then: Eat my cum!

Wanker’s Advocate (Poetry Form 93: Deibhide)

Deibhide rhyme is apparently when you make something rhyme with an unstressed syllable. It’s actually really tough to do. This form also has random internal rhymes in the 2nd half of each stanza.

As you can see, yet another gentleman has made it into the “twats who have offended me” poetry hall of fame.

You’re making it very hard
Not to think you’re a bastard
It may well be you’re just pissed
But the gist is you’re racist

If you think that it’s astute
To openly persecute
And discriminate and shun
For fun – that’s “free expression”?

Don’t get me wrong, I can see
That you think you are “edgy”
But the rest of us concur:
That you, Sir, are a wanker.

Troubled Lad (Poetry Form 92: Glosa)

This is going up late -due to tiredness.
Bit bleak, sorry.

A troubled lad. We never knew
He carried so much shame and dread.
But there was nothing we could do
We found his body on the bed.

Always alone, his Words are few
As he ignores the taunts and names
He knows the accusation’s true
It burns him up with frightened shame.

Because he knows that if he said
“You’re right” he is so sure he’d be
Thrown out. It rankles in his head:.
How could he tell his family?

They don’t suspect the reason, true,
But mum and dad can see his grief
He’ll tell them when he’s ready to.
They carry on in this belief

The letter that his parents read:
“I’m sorry, mum and dad. This way
Is better: let no tears be shed.
You’d never love love a son who’s gay.”

Transport. (Poetry Form 90: Lilliputian Poem)

This is, technically, a fictional poetry form, described by T. H. White in the book Mistress Masham’s repose, which is about a little girl’s relationship with a colony of lilliputians living in an
island on a lake in Britain, Whether this poetry form appears in the original
Gulliver’s Travels, I don’t know.
Like the footle, Lilliputian poetry is in trochaic monometer. The difference is that the first syllables need to rhyme with each other. Lilliputian poetry is also usually a quatrain in rhyming couplets.

I like
My bike.
So far,
No car.

Professional Diving (Poetry Form 89: Footle)

There’s a type of poem called a Footle! I know! Oh, Internet, what would I do without you?
It’s very short. Four syllables to be exact.
This is what I learned from watching the diving championships in Sheffield today, which distinguishes itself by being the only live sporting event I have ever enjoyed. Thank you, lovely Graeme, for talking me into it.

No splash:
More cash.

Blanked By A Toddler (Poetry Form 88: Huitan)

A huitan is a Spanish form, all about the number 8. 8 lines, 8 syllables each. Being Spanish you’d think it’d be called an ochotan. But no.
This is a poem about what happens if you have an image change. (hint: toddlers who used to know you think you’re a freaky stranger.)

She looks at me with doubtful eyes
When told to say hello to me
Turns to her mother in surprise
Wonders: who can this stranger be?
This purple haired atrocity
Is not the friendly face she knows.
Oh what an unkind fate to be
Unrecognised by Ava Rose!

Sheffield (Poetry Form 87: Kenning Poem)

An attempt at using kennings, which are something between metaphor and code, and frature heavily in Norse mythology. One of those things that’s easy to do, but hard to do well.
A good excercise for kids.

A leaky bowl
A rivers’ meeting
Hill-surrounded nest
Culture-crucible

Posted using Tinydesk Writer iPhone app

To The NHS Cu_ts (Poetry Form 86: Anapestic Tetrameter)

All these services, jobs, all this ongoing care
That you cut without warning, though we said “beware!”
You commissioners panicked and let the axe fall
Left the neediest ones with no comfort at all
And you thought we were silly and making a fuss
When we said “You must listen to people like us.
The ones on the ground who go out every day
Giving help and support – we can see there’s a way
We are saving you money – there’s no need for tension
The work that we do saves a pile through prevention.”
But you let the axe fall in a welter of gore
On the people the government loves to ignore
The community groups you said could not be done
For it looked like the members had far too much fun.
You could not see the benefit – you never asked
Of the work that we do, of our ongoing task
So away went the funding and down came the axe
You commissioners patted yourselves on the backs.
And so here we are now, a few months down the line
You commissioners thinking that everything’s fine
Till you look at the books and find to your chagrin
You’ve got more going out than you’ve got going in
As the ones that we helped, out of pure desperation
Try to take their own lives, need hospitalisation
I no longer expect you to shed any tears
When our valued ex-clients succumb to their fears
And so I must say what, so far, stays unsaid.
What’s the price of their stay in a hospital bed?

Little Girl At Sheffield Pride (Poetry Form 85: Prose Poem)

I’ve had a go at Prose Poetry. I’m not at all sure I’ve done it right, but here goes.

Laughing, stumbling, she heads for us like old friends, she is sure of her welcome. We have never seen her before. We smile, uncertain but taking joy from the light in her eyes as she giggles and trips among us, stands and beams at her three new brothers, three new mothers. Her certainty of her acceptance makes it hard to do anything else. Though we know we cannot, that she’s wanted, beloved by others, we would let her stay if we could, so infectious is her joy. She reaches up as if to impart cuddles to us all. Reaches up to the boys with their bobbing balloons. And then it is clear. It was always the balloons she wanted. We feel, somehow, hurt. A woman, her mother, pelts after her, smiles apologies and scoops up her tremble-lipped daughter to strap her down into a pushchair and leave us bereft. One of the boys chases after them, asking politely, is granted permission to present her with his balloon. Tear filled eyes brighten, and her sunshine smile lights us all up again. We feel honoured and blessed as she rides off in state, leaving us one balloon down but happier.