Arightwrite.co.uk Poetry Page

Sonnets

Here is a poem about men that I wrote
for a poetry night that was organised on
St Valentine’s Day.

Advice about Men

To fall in love with them is never wise
But if you cannot help it, then you must:
But if you do, do keep from him your sighs,
Or all his love for you will turn to dust.

Now don't agree to meet them out of doors
Or you may find yourself becoming cold:
And of good reading matter, do bring stores
Or else the curse of boredom may take hold.

And always tell them you have much to do
Apart from seeing them, and to seem keen
On doing it: and gen'rally must you
Be unafraid of being really mean.

That being said, don't turn them all away
Because we need them as we need the day.

This is a sonnet I wrote about a young man sitting next to me on a rather cramped coach. His looks didn’t interest me when he was awake, but when he fell asleep, he looked so moving, that I conceived and had written this sonnet by the time he woke up. I haven’t a clue who he was.

To my neighbour on the megabus, asleep.

Like some renaissance painting there he sits
In cramped conditions on a megabus:
A tallish youth, the space allowed he fits
Not well, but can endure it without fuss.

His physiognomy appears at peace:
He sleeps, and every angle is at rest:
His eyelids from their endless movement cease,
And softly breathing is his languid breast.

His hair streams down his back in knotted grace,
His head is cradled in his open hand,
His elbow on his upraised thigh in place,
His legs in posture perfect but unplanned.

And there he is – thus nature does her best –
A picture of pure health, and youth, and rest.

Sonnet Sequence: Ancient Tunes
Three Folk Fiddlers

One: Robin Garside

You worthy wight, so willing to preserve
Our legacy of ancient tunes, to mend
Our broken great traditions, and to serve
Our goodly heritage, athwart the trend.

Our sacred teachings say, what father would
On being asked for bread, then give a stone?
So you have taught our young, for common good,
To make our ancient tunes their very own.

And I, a hesitant musician, you
Have filled with confidence to play:
That now I can, my keyboard in full view,
Our tunes' sweet chordal harmonies display.

For this, for which you have so strongly striven,
Dear Robin, high abundant praise be given.

Sonnet Sequence: Ancient Tunes
Three Folk Fiddlers

Two: Patrick Walker

That night the fiddlers had my chords' support
And then you joined us in an ancient tune,
Your fiddle soaring up on your own thought,
Your musicality to thrill me soon.

Your tunes were swooping, swaying, straying:
I underneath was holding chords so steady
That it occurred to me that we were playing
Another ancient tune, and I held ready.

Your harmonies and phrasing caught me just
How they would pleasure me, so sweet, sweet so
I played my chords to hold up to your thrust
And bore against the swooping of your bow.

This memory of being sweetly pleasured
I in my heart, unknown to you, have treasured.

Sonnet Sequence: Ancient tunes
Three Folk Fiddlers

Three: Emanuel Grimsley

It is so common: what you know, you teach
Your children: and my music was my joy.
But you with stubborn mind, how hard to reach,
How hard to raise and cherish, last-born boy.

What bitter struggles, as my mind turned numb,
We had, until at last goodwill you chose,
Then as we played together, to become
The child in whom my soul has most repose.

So with our plangent ancient tunes we find
They drive their dissonances first, to send
Their deep harmonic tensions to unwind,
Resolve, and weave to their appointed end.

And for this sought sweet stasis, so hard-won,
Your mother's blessing on you, last-born son.

Other Forms

When I feel like a change, I compose my own structures. There’s no point sticking to the established forms if they don’t give you scope to say what you want to say!

Here is a poem I wrote for my late father, who was a keen vegetable-gardener. He was cross because spring was late that year, and demanded that I write a poem that would get his asparagus growing! It was flattering and intriguing that he thought that poetry could influence events. He was only six months away from his death at the time. (I would only add that I have my mother’s permission to publish this and the following poem, and that we are both sure my father’s permission to publish would have been enthusiastically forthcoming.) For those of you who don’t know what an allotment is, it’s a plot of land on which to grow your own produce, and it’s rented from the local authority. Every English citizen has the right to cultivate one.

Asparagus.

The April snow is falling down
Upon my good allotment’s earth:
The soil is fertile, rich and brown,
But of spring’s sunshine there is dearth.

My fine asparagus now lies
With other crops below the ground:
Its thrusting spears will never rise
Until they have the sunshine found.

My life’s long course has seen me thrive:
Prosperity, a good career,
Two daughters fair, grandchildren five,
Achievement growing year on year.

The love of friends and family,
My house whose joy I cannot hide,
My cherished garden all can see:
But my allotment is my pride.

I love to see my produce thrive
And all my vegetables growing,
But they will never come alive
Whilever climate turns to snowing.

And why am I beset with cold?
And why is spring so very late?
While I, alas, am growing old,
I cannot wait: I cannot wait.

Harvest

My father was too ill to till his ground
And when to be so weakened he was found
My mother uttered words of fearful sound:
There will be no harvest

And when he went to his appointed end
Amid the tears of relative and friend
We finally in grief could comprehend
There would be no harvest

So from the tree of life there falls a leaf
And grim mortality is proved a thief
And nothing can now keep us from our grief
Can there yet be harvest?

His patch of earth its fruits no longer bear
The flowers in the garden bloom less fair
And we bereaved drag round with anguished air
Yet there is a harvest

The widow of her husband now bereft
Two daughters who now feel his death a theft
Grandchildren five who weeping now are left
Is this not a harvest?

A span of time well filled with merriment
A life on helping kith and kin hard bent
The mem’ries of a long fine life well spent
This shall be his harvest.

Examples of my poetry
Sonnets Here is a poem about men that I wrote for a poetry night that was organised on St Valentine’s Day. Advice about Men To fall in love with them is never wise But if you cannot help it, then you must: But if you do, do keep from him your sighs, Or all his love for you will turn to dust. Now don't agree to meet them out of doors Or you may find yourself becoming cold: And of good reading matter, do bring stores Or else the curse of boredom may take hold. And always tell them you have much to do Apart from seeing them, and to seem keen On doing it: and gen'rally must you Be unafraid of being really mean. That being said, don't turn them all away Because we need them as we need the day.	This is a sonnet I wrote about a young man sitting next to me on a rather cramped coach. His looks didn’t interest me when he was awake, but when he fell asleep, he looked so moving, that I conceived and had written this sonnet by the time he woke up. I haven’t a clue who he was. To my neighbour on the megabus, asleep. Like some renaissance painting there he sits In cramped conditions on a megabus: A tallish youth, the space allowed he fits Not well, but can endure it without fuss. His physiognomy appears at peace: He sleeps, and every angle is at rest: His eyelids from their endless movement cease, And softly breathing is his languid breast. His hair streams down his back in knotted grace, His head is cradled in his open hand, His elbow on his upraised thigh in place, His legs in posture perfect but unplanned. And there he is – thus nature does her best – A picture of pure health, and youth, and rest.
Back to the top of the page. The next three sonnets concern my love of folk music, and are about three musicians whom I know. By now, you should be getting the idea of what a sonnet is: yes, it's a poem in 14 lines! There is more than one way of organizing a sonnet, but I do it the way Shakespeare did it: three verses of four lines each, with alternating rhymes in each, and one verse of two lines, rhyming. The rhythm of each line is "di-dah" five times. (Alternatively, if you want this in technical language, a sonnet consists of three quatrains and a couplet, rhyme scheme abab, cdcd, efef, gg, and with the rhythm in iambic pentameters!)
Sonnet Sequence: Ancient Tunes Three Folk Fiddlers One: Robin Garside You worthy wight, so willing to preserve Our legacy of ancient tunes, to mend Our broken great traditions, and to serve Our goodly heritage, athwart the trend. Our sacred teachings say, what father would On being asked for bread, then give a stone? So you have taught our young, for common good, To make our ancient tunes their very own. And I, a hesitant musician, you Have filled with confidence to play: That now I can, my keyboard in full view, Our tunes' sweet chordal harmonies display. For this, for which you have so strongly striven, Dear Robin, high abundant praise be given.	Sonnet Sequence: Ancient Tunes Three Folk Fiddlers Two: Patrick Walker That night the fiddlers had my chords' support And then you joined us in an ancient tune, Your fiddle soaring up on your own thought, Your musicality to thrill me soon. Your tunes were swooping, swaying, straying: I underneath was holding chords so steady That it occurred to me that we were playing Another ancient tune, and I held ready. Your harmonies and phrasing caught me just How they would pleasure me, so sweet, sweet so I played my chords to hold up to your thrust And bore against the swooping of your bow. This memory of being sweetly pleasured I in my heart, unknown to you, have treasured.
Sonnet Sequence: Ancient tunes Three Folk Fiddlers Three: Emanuel Grimsley It is so common: what you know, you teach Your children: and my music was my joy. But you with stubborn mind, how hard to reach, How hard to raise and cherish, last-born boy. What bitter struggles, as my mind turned numb, We had, until at last goodwill you chose, Then as we played together, to become The child in whom my soul has most repose. So with our plangent ancient tunes we find They drive their dissonances first, to send Their deep harmonic tensions to unwind, Resolve, and weave to their appointed end. And for this sought sweet stasis, so hard-won, Your mother's blessing on you, last-born son.
Back to the top of the page.
Other Forms When I feel like a change, I compose my own structures. There’s no point sticking to the established forms if they don’t give you scope to say what you want to say! Here is a poem I wrote for my late father, who was a keen vegetable-gardener. He was cross because spring was late that year, and demanded that I write a poem that would get his asparagus growing! It was flattering and intriguing that he thought that poetry could influence events. He was only six months away from his death at the time. (I would only add that I have my mother’s permission to publish this and the following poem, and that we are both sure my father’s permission to publish would have been enthusiastically forthcoming.) For those of you who don’t know what an allotment is, it’s a plot of land on which to grow your own produce, and it’s rented from the local authority. Every English citizen has the right to cultivate one. Asparagus. The April snow is falling down Upon my good allotment’s earth: The soil is fertile, rich and brown, But of spring’s sunshine there is dearth. My fine asparagus now lies With other crops below the ground: Its thrusting spears will never rise Until they have the sunshine found. My life’s long course has seen me thrive: Prosperity, a good career, Two daughters fair, grandchildren five, Achievement growing year on year. The love of friends and family, My house whose joy I cannot hide, My cherished garden all can see: But my allotment is my pride. I love to see my produce thrive And all my vegetables growing, But they will never come alive Whilever climate turns to snowing. And why am I beset with cold? And why is spring so very late? While I, alas, am growing old, I cannot wait: I cannot wait.	Well, the asparagus did come up, but soon afterwards my father fell mortally ill, and my mother said, of the later crops, "There will be no harvest." She didn't know that he was destined never to recover, so her statement was matter-of-fact and referred only to that autumn. But when he died, it seemed a fitting statement with which to commence this elegy. Harvest My father was too ill to till his ground And when to be so weakened he was found My mother uttered words of fearful sound: There will be no harvest And when he went to his appointed end Amid the tears of relative and friend We finally in grief could comprehend There would be no harvest So from the tree of life there falls a leaf And grim mortality is proved a thief And nothing can now keep us from our grief Can there yet be harvest? His patch of earth its fruits no longer bear The flowers in the garden bloom less fair And we bereaved drag round with anguished air Yet there is a harvest The widow of her husband now bereft Two daughters who now feel his death a theft Grandchildren five who weeping now are left Is this not a harvest? A span of time well filled with merriment A life on helping kith and kin hard bent The mem’ries of a long fine life well spent This shall be his harvest.
Back to the top of the page. Villanelles These are difficult, but magical! I won't bore you with the structure, because as you can see, it's complicated: it's a sort of incantatory poem, with two lines that have to keep coming back at specified places. They make moving and thoughtful poems, and people love them, even though they are so strictly structured. 'Spring Fear' is a villanelle I wrote for a friend, who one year was feeling rather oddly negative about the approach of spring.
Villanelle: Spring Fear Now winter’s night has come and gone I face the spring as days grow light, And fear the act of moving on. A strange thing, this phenomenon, I should be putting fears to flight Now winter’s night has come and gone. The weeds on which the sun has shone I find I’m shutting out of sight, And fear the act of moving on. My face and life look pale and wan, I ought to put them both to right Now winter’s night has come and gone, But like a blank automaton, I hold myself quite hard and tight And fear the act of moving on. Perhaps the spring is just a con Perhaps I feel life isn’t bright Now winter’s night has come and gone, And fear the act of moving on.	Villanelle: My Last Courgette (Dramatic Monologue for Stan Sokoloff, June 2005) I think I’ve grown my last courgette: I feel my time is drawing near: I wish I could say “Not quite yet.” It is no use to rage and fret, I must accept it without fear: I think I’ve grown my last courgette. Perhaps to help me to forget, In hope, my granddaughter was here: I wish I could say “Not quite yet.” Such loving help from her I get, However now I’m sure it’s clear I think I’ve grown my last courgette. And I owe her old age’s debt: “Now I can live another year.” I wish I could say “Not quite yet.” Now as I gaze with calm regret Upon my patch of earth so dear I think I’ve grown my last courgette: I wish I could say “Not quite yet.”
Villanelle: Upon the Clyde Upon the calm and shining Clyde Displaying mastery of flight The placid seagulls drift and glide I contemplate my life well-tried While Scotland’s sun defies the night Upon the calm and shining Clyde My son, in whom I have such pride, Now shows the world his adult might: The placid seagulls drift and glide While Nature’s beauty they spread wide And I enjoy this silent sight Upon the calm and shining Clyde. Incoming thoughts float with the tide Like seabirds: joy is at its height: The placid seagulls drift and glide. With son and city satisfied I sit in Glasgow’s sunlit night: Upon the calm and shining Clyde The placid seagulls drift and glide	Poems for Fun! Here’s a light-hearted satirical poem about association football (soccer.) If you don’t understand football and the British obsession with it, find someone who does and get him (or her!) to explain it all to you. The Evils of Football To STRIKER solemn note, It seems your AIM in life is crazy: Your GOALS the pub and STADIUM In which you can be lazy. You sit for ages in the cold, Some draughty CORNER choosing To watch your OFF SIDE try once more To win, but mostly losing. Quite off the BALL, reality And dreams grotesquely blurring You go AWAY for hours from HOME, No PENALTY incurring. To no NET gain, you sit all day, Your wives and kids neglecting, And drunk and grumpy you come home, No good on you REFlecting. I PASS you this advice, POST-haste, So take it if you can: To each of you, now draw some LINES And start to be a MAN!

Examples of my poetry

Sonnets

Other Forms

Villanelles

Poems for Fun!