Prophecy (Poetry Form 44: Trochaic Tetrameter)

This is Trochaic Tetrameter, made famous by Longfellow’s epic poem The Song Of Hiawatha. I’ve also seen this form called “Hiawathas” and “Kalevala meter”

Now I see into the future,
See the people I’m becoming
People whom I used to pity
– Some would even jeer and mock them –
But not me, I never mocked them.
Still I never thought about it
Not when I was younger, never
Saw my future in their faces
Heard my past within their voices
They were older, I was younger
What had they to do with my life?
I was fresh and energetic
They were weak and frail and withered.
How could one become the other?
Never would I be what they were.
But I now begin to feel it
Feel the aching joints they spoke of
See the silver hairs invading
Feel the wrinkles grooving deeper
Find I cannot find the word, I
Mime the phrase I can’t remember
Wish that folk would speak more clearly
And complain that their behavior
Lacks respect and proper manners.
It was never so in my day!
I am not an ancient lady,
But the path is clear before me
Though I am not old, I will be
And as I go down to meet it
Old age rushes up to meet me
Ever closer, ever closer.

Immortals (Poetry form 43: Sapphic)

These are sapphic stanzas. They are quite hard to do.
Someone on Radio 4 was talking about the scientific endeavor to find the secret to eternal life. Seems kind of unwise…

Back then, our mortality gave us nightmares
Knowing we were fallible, had a shelf life.
Each gray hair, each laughter line would remind us
Death’d come someday

First we tried denial, made dyes and lotions
“Fight the signs of aging!” the adverts promised.
All except the principle sign of aging:
Death’d still take us.

But some creatures never die. We discovered
Ancient trees, and jellyfish with the secret
Constant cell renewal! The great elixir!
We could unlock it!

Years of patient studying cells and cultures
We ignored the ethical implications
So determined were we to have the secret
Death’d be vanquished.

And we did it. Humans can live for ever!
One slight change in chromosomes. One injection.
Age shan’t wither anyone. We’re immortal.
Death’s obsolete, now.

No such thing as menopause, no more wrinkles!
Noone looks much older that twenty seven.
No more kids, though. Nobody parents, these days –
Cannot afford to.

There’s no room for any more human beings.
No-one dies, so nobody can be born now.
Stuck in an eternal, unaging peer group:
Death’d be welcome.

Love Song Of The Dodo (Poetry Form 42: Dodoitsu)

This is a Japanese folksong form, often concerning love or comedy.

From across the sea they came
Those strange, enormous bird-things.
Until they came in plain sight
We thought them cousins.

Floating, duck-like, on the tide
But their puffed-out wooden chests
And canvas wings spread so wide
Proved they were no birds

But from them came these creatures
Two-legged, tall and beautiful:
Never had we seen their like!
So we welcomed them

They smiled to see us waddle
Among them. Our snort-cluck-honks
Amused them. And they admired
Our plump, round bodies.

They gathered us in their arms.
Delighted, we snuggled close.
Throatily crooning our love
As they filled cook-pots.

England! England! England! (Poetry Form 41: Domino Rhyme)

Happy St George’s Day!

Today we celebrate our Englishness!
Saint George and William Shakespeare, what a team!
Those other countries simply aren’t as good!
It must be rather beastly to be foreign!

Of being English they can only dream!
However hard they try, they’re not like us!
They speak in heathen tongues, don’t look the same!
We know they would be English if they could!

Because we English never make a fuss!
Discuss the weather to avoid emotion!
Just keep it bottled up, never let go!
Stiff upper lip! Play up and play the game!

We used to rule the waves of every ocean!
We used to have an empire that was great!
It’s gone forever, but we mustn’t grumble!
Chin up, Never say die, jolly good show!

It seems obscurity will be our fate!
A little scrap of self important rock!
In icy seas, still living in the past!
Perhaps it’s time we learned how to be humble!

Faceblind (Poetry Form 40: Pleiadic)

This is a Pleiadic- a verse form devised by Vera Rich. It is also an explanation for anyone I might have inadvertently snubbed.

It isn’t easy to put names to faces,
For me. I find it hard in public places

It isn’t easy meeting people when
I often blank them when we meet again.

I’m always trying to put names I know
To strangers, trying not to let it show

How baffled I become, talking to faces
I just can’t place. I have no social graces.

The way I come across cannot be good
For me, but I’d be friendly if I could

Be sure I knew you. So I try and yet,
Alas, I find it hard. And “Have we met?”

Seems kind of rude. I’ve just no head for faces!
That’s why I seem aloof in public places.

Lullaby (Poetry Form 39: Abhanga)

This is a Marathi (Indian dialect) poetry form. It seemed quite dreamlike to me, so I took a NaPoWriMo prompt from a couple of days ago to write a lullaby.

Hush now. Hush my darling.
Rest your hot little head
Collapse into your bed
Let sleep take you

Away into dreaming.
Let sleep soothe all away
The troubles of the day
Go exploring

The caverns of your mind
Places you have never been.
Things you believe you’ve seen
Are now transformed

My darling, go to sleep
I know you want to stay
Awake. You want to play.
But now it’s time

To rest your little head
To close your eyes and go
Beyond the world you know
And play in dreams.

Ice Maiden (Poetry Form 38: Zejel)

This is an obscure Spanish form, pronounced “the hell”.
A nice form, but not the best poem today. Not feeling very inspired.

My manner’s always frosty, freezing
Out the ones I find displeasing
Time spent with me’s a bitter season.

I would rather be alone
Than talk for ages in the phone
And never call my soul my own
And so I give you no good reason

To hang around me day and night,
Although I’m gruff and impolite
You shrug and laugh off every slight
I cannot bear your constant teasing!

Though I find your presence vile
I find that in a little while
You almost make me want to smile
I feel something within me squeezing

Could it be that my heart has thawed?
I hope you do not think you’ve scored
Or that you’re wanted or adored!
There really isn’t any reason!

The Strip Cooperative (Poetry Form 37: Ballad)

I have a fond ambition
It’s a silly little dream
But when I talk about it
Certain people start to scream

They call it “Stockholm syndrome”
Or “internalized oppression”
So it’s with trepidation that
I now make this confession:

I want to start a strip club
With podiums and poles
Loud music, lots of cocktails.
Yes, you’ve heard of nobler goals

But feminists who hate sex work
I have to say they vex me:
Is working what they think is bad,
Or is it being sexy?

But then again I’m not a fan
Of clubs like spearmint rhino:
For though their club’s for “Gentlemen”
-it’s full of sexist winos

Seattle’s Lusty Lady showed
The way it could be done
How sex workers could be empowered
And stripping could be fun.

But I’ve a different club in mind:
All genders on the stage
As long as they can drink and vote,
They can be any age.

My clients aren’t just “gentlemen”
No gender borders here!
I’ll welcome all, though I suspect
That many will be queer.

But best of all, I have a plan
To keep my clients respectful
They’ll never see my staff as “meat”
Or else they’ll feel regretful

For a raffle number’s printed
On each ticket that we sell
And if you find your number’s up
You’re on the stage as well!

One dancer gets the night off
-You can pay for all their drinks-
And in their place, you strut your stuff
Give sexy little winks.

We first give you a makeover
And paint your lips much pucer
You’ll look like Brad and Janet did
When struck by the transducer.

And when we’ve seen you take it off
We’ll bear you no ill will
Our strippers are your comrades now
You’ll praise their grace and skill

And yes, of course, each Friday night
The management will dance
Accountants, cleaners, front-of-house
We all will get our chance.

I often sit and fantasize
The way my club would run
Not only titillating
But some good, old fashioned fun!

It’s really just a silly dream
It’s probably just me
Who hopes the Strip Cooperative
Could be reality!

Bill and Nellie (Poetry Form 36: Shakespearean Sonnet)

Another sonnet, today, this time , Shakespearean.

This is about an old couple I knew when I worked at a nursing home.

 

He calls her “Toots” and “little chickadee”

And in the day room, clasps her knobbly hand

Makes sure that there’s three sugars in her tea

And tries to help the nurses understand

 

What she would like. He has to be her voice

The stroke which struck her dumb and holds her still

Prevented her from having any choice

And yet he tries, and yet he always will

 

But sometimes words come to her lips again

When, angry, scared, surprised, her voice will quaver

And sometimes out of love, the words will strain

From her, to show she knows he will not waver

 

So, sometimes, as he bends to kiss and hug her,

These words, suffused with love: “Yer daft old bugger!”

Commuting (Poetry Form 35: Cinquain)

Today, a Cinquain. Five unrhymed lines, with 2 then 4, then 6, then 8, then 2 syllables.

This bus
The same each day
It’s so reliable,
Even its chronic lateness is
On time.