Writing - Why poetry?

 I write poetry, in fact, I have written poetry off and on for 40 years and more but it is only in the last 15 years or so that I've made an effort to publish works myself. There are some people who actually read my collections and have continued to do so. One of those recommended the work of poet Charles Causley. I read one of his poems and listened to another being read. I liked them. 

Charles Causley (1917 - 2003) 

 To answer the question in the title, I will reproduce some sections of Causley's works. 

Ballad of the Breadman 

Mary stood in the kitchen
Baking a loaf of bread.
An angel flew in through the window.
‘We’ve a job for you,’ he said.

‘God in his big gold heaven

Sitting in his big blue chair,

Wanted a mother for his little son.

Suddenly saw you there.’

Mary shook and trembled,

‘It isn’t true what you say.’

‘Don’t say that,’ said the angel.

‘The baby’s on its way.’

Joseph was in the workshop

Planing a piece of wood.

‘The old man’s past it,’ the neighbours said.

‘That girl's been up to no good.’

Quite a long piece simply designed and works admirably. 

Timothy Winters 

Timothy Winters has bloody feet
And he lives in a house on Suez Street,
He sleeps in a sack on the kitchen floor
And they say there aren't boys like him any more.

Old man Winters likes his beer
And his missus ran off with a bombardier.
Grandma sits in the grate with a gin
And Timothy's dosed with an aspirin.

The Welfare Worker lies awake
But the law's as tricky as a ten-foot snake,
So Timothy Winters drinks his cup
And slowly goes on growing up. 

The middle section of the poem, a political comment on the problems for the less fortunate. 

Eden Rock  

They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:

My father, twenty-five, in the same suit

Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack

Still two years old and trembling at his feet.

 

My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress

Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat,

Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.

Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.

 

She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight

From an old H.P. Sauce bottle, a screw

Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out

The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.

This appeals to me because there are echoes of my own past and style of growing up in the 50's and 60's. 

If you have enjoyed the samples then feel free to buy or delve into the works on the web. Even have a go yourselves, that is, at writing your story in verse. 

God Bless