Writing - Poetic Art

 Having considered poetry in a variety of situations and styles it is perhaps useful to consider it as art. There are close parallels which can be also confused by poetry's political value. If you consider an epic poem like the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner or the Ballad of Reading Gaol aren't they rather like a grand painting such as David's Coronation of Napoleon or the Bayeux Tapestry. I am not going to categorise either here but it is an interesting exercise to examine them as an exercise for your own pleasure (or confusion). 

by Banksy 

I love Banksy's art. The recent deluge of works in London were great fun and showed just how significant and up-to-date art can be and it is the same for poetry. It can be as much fun, politically relevant, poignant or historical as the writer wants it to be. The poetic extract below is a part of my history.

Not my people

 

Shipyard fortnight they called it then,

businesses in town closed for 14 days,

seemed like all the people packed their bags,

and left the town for summer holidays.

 

First there was the preparation,

 finding some place to go and stay,

 then buying khaki shorts, snake belt, t-shirts, new pants, socks, and sandals,

 and mam and dad got summer claes. 

I was feeling a little reflective of my own history when I wrote it and it awakened warm fuzzy memories. It is a snapshot of a number of holidays, what is important is the atmosphere holidaying in the fifties and sixties generated. If I had the talent I could have represented the same sort of nostalgia in a painting. 

The style you choose for your poetry depends on the subject matter and the impact you're trying to achieve on your reader. Using a comic style may not fit a poem describing a disaster, but of course that depends on your sense of humour. 

The message really is to consider your audience if you intend your work to be seen. I say 'consider' but you don't have to, that is down to the reason why you have written a particular piece of work. For myself, at my age, I write what I want and bugger the consequences! 

God Bless 

Poetry Thursday 54 - Not my people

 Moving away from the tight structure of villanelle this week allows a degree of flexibility of expression. Also you get two for the price of one!

Not my people

 

Shipyard fortnight they called it then,

businesses in town closed for 14 days,

seemed like all the people packed their bags,

and left the town for summer holidays.

 

First there was the preparation,

 finding some place to go and stay,

 then buying khaki shorts, snake belt, t-shirts, new pants, socks, and sandals,

 and mam and dad got summer claes.

 

Setting off few had their own cars,

so off to the station on the day,

lugging stuffed suitcases without wheels,

an early start to be on the way.

 

All so that we could go to the beach,

where I got lost and started to whine,

surrounded by hundreds enjoying the sun,

but the people I could see were not mine.

 

All was well in the end, mam came,

ice cream mended the fractured day,

time passed quickly and soon it was time,

to set off on our homeward way.

 

An annual event designed to refresh,

relieved to be on the homeward track,

a shade darker, winter claes a touch tighter,

but overall we’re glad to be back.

©David L Atkinson August 2024 

The Floor

 

It dropped on the floor and then rolled away,

I watched in puzzled indecisiveness,

wondered if I’d need it again today,

procrastinated with creativeness,

considered the available options,

and dropped to the floor with assertiveness.

 

Remember consequences of actions,

too late for ‘what am I doing down here?’

what are the back to vertical options,

up on my knees position to clear,

looking for handholds within easy reach,

three deep breaths, hold tight, haul without fear.

 

Range of lessons available to teach,

easier to stay vertical philosophy,

avoid damage to joints, don’t overreach,

leave fallen objects to lie quietly,

until enough accumulate below,

to warrant the peril of injury.  

©David L Atkinson July 2024 

God Bless 

Writings - What's Poetry?

 Last week I asked the question 'why poetry?' without saying what poetry is! 

Poetry -  is a type of literature, or artistic writing, that attempts to stir a reader's imagination or emotions. The poet does this by carefully choosing and arranging language for its meaning, sound, and rhythm. Some poems, such as nursery rhymes, are simple and humorous.

A pretty broad definition which I choose to interpret as broadly as possible, however, I prefer structure in my poetry as it helps me create. Stephen Fry describes poetry in his book 'The Hippopotamus'. 

A poem is made of real words and real things. You start with the base physical world and your own base physical self. If some meaning or beauty comes out of it, then that is, I suppose, the wonder and relief of art. You want gold, you have to go down a mine to hack it out of the ground, you have to sweat your gut out in a filthy forge to smelt it: it doesn't fall in gleaming sheets from the bar of heaven. You want poetry, first, you have to muck in with humanity, you have to fight with paper and pencil for weeks and weeks until your head bleeds: verses aren't channeled into your head by angels or muses or sprites of nature. 

As usual he has a magical way with words and defines poetry far better than I can. 

I shared an example of what I consider to be good poetry by Charles Causley - The Ballad of the Breadman. It is a retelling of the birth of Jesus and done in such a way as to make it accessible to all. 

I'm sure some will say that it is blasphemous or at least irreligious but sometimes life's stories need a degree of unpacking for us lesser mortals and using plain language can be of great assistance. 

When I read the ballad I can't help but smile. That is a function of poetry for me - to entertain, to explain and to generate emotion. 

God Bless 

Poetry Thursday 53 - Ower

 A villanelle about flowers or rhyming ours, towers and showers; or hour and flour; or four and pour. Confusing or what?

Ower

 

Enjoy the natural blooming flowers,

decorating this special place,

benefitting from earth’s frequent showers.

 

Placed to best enhance their growing powers,

so to maintain that particular race,

enjoy the natural blooming flowers.

 

Cutting or training to enhance bowers,

a short lived usage, unnatural case,

benefitting from earth’s frequent showers.

 

Surely better in familiar towers,

rather than translated to a new space,

enjoy the natural blooming flowers.

 

They are not placed to benefit ours,

but to work in tandem with insect race,

benefitting from earth’s frequent showers.

 

Leave them glow in their natural towers,

don’t cut them for aesthetic selfish place,

enjoy the natural blooming flowers,

benefitting from earth’s frequent showers.

©David L Atkinson August 2024

In a simpler style a description illustrating that the tongue can be mightier than the sword. 

 

Older funnier

 

I looked in two mirrors at the back of my head,

not hair did I see but bright, shiny skin instead,

no doubt another source of manic public mirth,

at least when young, fewer assaults on one’s self-worth.

 

Harder when young to use damage limitation,

defending the deep emotional incision,

about height, or weight, or colour, or creed, or team,

about everything different or so it seems.

 

But when older, available targets increase

daily or so it seems, to disturb normal peace,

apparently there’s a human desire to scoff,

what else do we do but grimace and laugh it off.

©David L Atkinson August 2024 

God Bless 

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 

Poetry Thursday 52 - Civil Unrest etc

The violence that is being spread across the country and probably generated and spread with the help of social media, right-wing press and probably extreme right-wing politicians, shouldn't go without comment. 

Civil Unrest

 

Never an excuse for violent deeds,

weaker intellects provide fertile soil

for the growing of society’s weeds.

 

Sowing poisonous political seeds,

fertilised with rancid vegetable oil,

never an excuse for violent deeds.

 

Causing unrest not satisfying needs,

employing social media to spoil,

for the growing of society’s weeds.

 

Sponsored by those whose role is service leads,

forgetting the votes were for public toil,

never an excuse for violent deeds.

 

Nothing is good when the damaged heart bleeds,

as a result of foolish stir and boil,

for the growing of society’s weeds.

 

Don’t step into a realm of driven greeds,

falsely painted by no artist in oil,

never an excuse for violent deeds,

for the growing of society’s weeds.

©David L Atkinson August 2024  

God Bless 

Writing - Phrases and Sayings

 I suppose a writer's age and history can be a bit of a stumbling block. Idioms and proverbs are dynamic and can alter with time and usage. Thinking about it so does geography even within the same country. Such phrases can add local colour and historical relevance to what you're writing.

The following passage illustrates some phrases and sayings that were in common usage a generation or so ago.

The other day a not so elderly (I say 75) lady said something to her son about driving a Jalopy; and he looked at her quizzically and said, "What the heck is a Jalopy?" He had never heard of the word jalopy! She knew she was old ...But not that old.

Well, I hope you are Hunky Dory when you read this and chuckle.

About a month ago, I illuminated some old expressions that have become obsolete because of the inexorable march of technology.

These phrases included: Don't touch that dial; Carbon copy; You sound like a broken record; and Hung out to dry.

Back in the olden days we had a lot of moxie . We'd put on our best bib and tucker, to straighten up and fly right.

Heavens to Betsy!

Gee whillikers!

Jumping Jehoshaphat!

Holy Moley!

We were in like Flynn and living the life of Riley ; and even a regular guy couldn't accuse us of being a knucklehead, a nincompoop or a pill. Not for all the tea in China!

Back in the olden days, life used to be swell, but when's the last time anything was swell? Swell has gone the way of beehives, pageboys and the D.A.; of spats, knickers, fedoras, poodle skirts, saddle shoes, and pedal pushers.

Oh, my aching back! Kilroy was here, but he isn't anymore.

We wake up from what surely has been just a short nap, and before we can say, "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle!" Or, "This is a fine kettle of fish!" We discover that the words we grew up with, the words that seemed omnipresent, as oxygen, have vanished with scarcely a notice from our tongues and our pens and our keyboards.

Poof, go the words of our youth, the words we've left behind. We blink, and they're gone. Where have all those great phrases gone?

Long gone: Pshaw, The milkman did it. Hey! It's your nickel. Don't forget to pull the chain. Knee high to a grasshopper.

Well, Fiddlesticks! Going like sixty. I'll see you in the funny papers. Don't take any wooden nickels. Wake up and smell the roses.

Some phrases have crossed the Atlantic, and others failed to travel 100 miles down the M1. One currently employed by those trying to appear sophisticated use 'from the get go' instead of 'from the start' the employment of which leaves me incandescent.

One colloquial saying from my own home area landed me in trouble with a young lady in 1968 in Bradford, Yorkshire. I said that 'she had a face like a hen's backside on a windy day' - meaning that she looked a little ruffled (upset). She seemed even more so after my comment!

God Bless