STEPHEN FRY

This is just a quick little comment about poems; I, from time to time, scribble little poems/odes and well I always feel like the lines have to rhyme in some way; or I feel like I have failed lol....but a poem does not need to rhyme so I don't know why I feel this way but I always have to make it rhyme!

I was right about the kindness shining from Stephen's eyes. After reading the first few pages of his autobiography, ie. the part where he is on the train heading to the boarding school. Bless him, even at the tender age of 8 he is showing kindness. I am referring to when he is being considerate to a rather nervous 'new boy' (Bunce) going to be starting a term at the said boarding school. How nice of him to do that:)

I am learning from thus excellent book, or rather basking in its unfolding knowledge. I have come up against my limitations though. I looked at the much-puffed Vahni Capildeo

JOURNAL OF ORDINARY DAYS

I.

Do I look like the sort of person who’s not fit
to go out and buy a pen on her own? The phrase
“May I borrow a biro” is unspeakable
for its vocalic ugliness. The task in hand,
this third daze of work, is dis- and rearranging,
suspecting, assessing, keying in and tagging
all the historical spellings of the verb QUIT.
“That can’t be a lot? QUIT is such a little verb?”
But people have been quitting for centuries, and
especially in Scotland, all in different ways.
So this third daze I break from work to buy a pen.
Let it be an ethical biro. I set out
for the fair trade Quaker shop. The assistants talk
more than I do, showing me pens two fingers thick
encrusted like scary rhinestoneri charging
pink-purple, delivering jabs in the eye
to mass-produced-capitalist-consumerist-
conformity. But not suitable to be housed
in the zoo of QUIT. Sorry, silent, cash intact,
I look elsewhere, and not far off the ordinary
rewards this initiative: sell-it-all, old-fashioned,
like nineteen fifty-three. nearly customer-free,
a newsagent of the English variety.
The cardboard cradles for goods on these shelves wouldn’t
aspire to store shoes, let alone to be reborn
as cut-out stars for a wonky schoolhouse mobile.
With reverence for age, I abstract a biro
not quite dried up. I softfoot over to the queue.
So form a line of one, outnumbered by cashiers.
The older assistant keeps things under control.
But can’t seem to stop his helper singing singing
Singing to him lovingly in a high-pitched tone,
“I’m going to put you in chains and take you home.
I’m going to put you in chains and take you home.”
Neither raises his voice; nor does the one quiet down.
In a queue of one I shall queue, change in hand, wait,
queue in a queue of one, however long it takes.
Anything is better than going back to QUIT.
I can buy a pen on my own. I’m fit.

I thought anapaests, truncated etc , some iambs, but really can't make much sense of it metrically.

One critic writes "Much of her poetry reads like prose, which in fact it is" and another comment is her inability to escape her solipsism.
Can anyone help please?If not, is it worth publishing as poetry rather than autobiographical snapshota ?

Senex72 said:
Just to say re: Journal of Ordinary Days I know about ree verse; which I suspect came in around 1380
However, looking again I think this poem is a sad immitation of Bridges lengthy Triumph of Beauty: written with 12 syllables to a line and no regard to stress or rhyme-pattern. What a clever girl to know these obscurities! SoI answer my own query it seems, and drop out.