Topic RSS | Reply to topic
Author Post

Danny-DeVine


Member

Posted Tue Jan 27th, 2009 3:04am Post subject: Thoughts of a Feckless Philosopher...
Sorry to the pro's
For what is written below
Poetry is tough


The Woman Who Lives

Mrs Benson we’ll call her,
Housewife to a lawyer,
A prim and respectable dame,
Though without employ,
Was known to enjoy,
Her day trips to Swansea bay,
For when she was there,
She’d let down her hair,
and set about making a wage.

The bulk of her labours,
Were favours for sailors,
from cuddles to flashes of knee,
A bit on the side,
I should also confide,
Was made flogging gin in the street,

Once daylight was spent,
(Some folks would repent),
But dear Mrs Benson does not,
A pound’s worth of chips,
and a big bit of cod,
and a skip not a walk,
as she treads through the sod,
of the soft sand on which she has spent all her day,
Playing and peeking and selling away,

Now...

It is time for her to return,
to head off back home to Mr Benson,
Who of course she will tell of her wearisome day,
Trudging through shops with old Mrs Drake,
“I can’t understand” Mr B will remark,
Why don’t you just take the old trout to a park,
“oh no” cries out our dear Mrs B,
“whenever she’s shopping she lights up, you see”

Hiding the money she’s made in a jar,
Stuffed out of sight down the back of the bath,
She smiles away as she lays on her bed,
Thinking back over the day that she’s had,
She wonders what old Mr Benson would think,
If he knew of her larks selling fiddles and drink,
He’d probably say that she needed a shrink
but she thinks it’s all just a laugh.

Though some may look down,
On this wed woman’s capers,
There’s one thing you cannot deny,
Though she is married,
And hasn’t a job,
Her CV is empty,
Her husband’s a snob,
She’ll tell you quite freely,
With a merry wee rhyme,
“Oh darling I have such wail of a time.”


Country Bumpkin

The City may be my mistress,
But,
My first love is the Countryside,
The crisp crunch of golden leaves underfoot,
Beats the crunch of crisp packets anytime,
To trudge across a muddy field,
Nature laid bare,
Heaven.

The City conceals
Everything about itself
Wrapping up life in cold hard concrete.
However,
Not without it’s charm,
The City is where one can go
If one wants to be someone else,
Which one always has to be
As being yourself,
Would be staying the same
In a City where those in vogue change from day to day.

Nature, is unfashionable,
It never changes
This is it’s true charm,
Steady, reliable, something to go home too,
No matter how many times you are unfaithful
And court it’s Metropolitan enemy
It takes you back with open arms
Just glad of your company.


The Huntsman

Stalking his prey through archaic labyrinths,
The huntsman moves quickly,
His only betrayal: the light shuffle of his sensible loafers
And the rattle of glasses on a chain.

He knows what he is looking for
And what he will do when he finds it.

On he strides,
Through dusty corridors stacked high with other potential prey,
But these are for another day,
On he strides...

He catches a glimpse of his quarry,
Sat quietly on a shelf,
Reflecting on existence,
It sits all by itself,
The huntsman makes his move,
He grabs his silent victim,
It’s spine trembles as he holds it in his firm grasp,
It gives in.

The huntsman sets to work,
Carving up this conquered beast,
Readying his heart and mind,
For a very different kind of feast.

First he bites into the nouns,
Abundant, bland, yet filling,
Next the verbs sit on the plate,
Which after a light grilling
Release their inner succulence
(the core of literal sustenance),
Prepositions and connectives never make it to the table,
For not only are they bland, but fundamentally all grissle,
Finally, and for dessert, the richest flavour of them all,
The adjectives will see to it
That this dear huntsman’s all but full.

Now that he has had his fill,
His mind well-bloated from the meal
He greedily gorged himself upon,
Only now does he pull out the finest tools in his hunting arsenal,
The ones that truly leave their mark,
He begins to write.

With his new-found nutrition,
The huntsman pens his work,
Regurgitating phrases,
Adjectives, Nouns and Verbs,
He weaves them all together,
And sets them on the page,
Then bounds it up in leather,
And puts it centre-stage
Upon the shelf
From which he took his prey.

And so the hunt is over,
The prey has been well-bled,
The huntsman had his fill,
Of all that he had read,
He took a current concept,
And after rearrangement,
Created something similar,
And called it inspiration.

There is a lesson to be learned,
From all of this notation,
There are huntsman everywhere,
No matter what vocation,
So if you cry “this isn’t me”
Then hark my dearest reader!
For prey is what you’ve come to be,
The huntsman’s helpless feeder.

For once the huntsman sees his quarry,
There’s naught that you can do,
The shuffle of his loafers,
Will be your only clue,
Before he swoops and eats your words,
Your precious adjectives and verbs,
Will find their way into his verse.
If there’s a fate that can be worse,
I’d gladly like to know it,
To have words stolen from their beds,
Those precious thoughts ripped from your head.

For we are literary victims,
Ever thoughtful,
Stalked forever more,
By huntsmen who would seek to feast
upon our creative inner core,
For though we do not like to show it,
We have something that they lack
Originality is our forte,
Though we often take the flak,
For saying what we feel too often,
Without a front, or manly tac,

So dear victim, take this comfort,
though the huntsman may be looming,
he wastes his time on earth just hunting,
you can spend your whole life blooming.

Make a conscious effort,
when pondering rhythm and rhyme,
To think about your huntsman,
and what he seeks to find,
For if you have an enemy,
It’s for the best to know it,
(for those of you who’ve not caught on
my huntsman is a poet).

Back to top

Danny-DeVine


Member

Posted Sat Jan 31st, 2009 10:27pm Post subject: Thoughts of a Feckless Philosopher...
Hmm...

*cue tumbleweed*

Maybe I'll stick to scriptwriting then...

Back to top

PamJH


Member

Posted Sun Feb 1st, 2009 7:02pm Post subject: Thoughts of a Feckless Philosopher...
Sorry to the pro's
For what is written below
Poetry is tough


The Woman Who Lives


The bulk of her labours,
Were favours for sailors,
from cuddles to flashes of knee,
A bit on the side,
I should also confide,
Was made flogging gin in the street,

I hope have this message arranged correctly. Anyway:

Hold the tumbleweeds for a minute. This stanza has a limerick quality that I quite liked. It's very fun and gives a well-deserved nod to Ogden Nash.

Country Bumpkin

The City may be my mistress,
But,
My first love is the Countryside,
The crisp crunch of golden leaves underfoot,
Beats the crunch of crisp packets anytime,
To trudge across a muddy field,
Nature laid bare,
Heaven.[/quote]

I liked the first stanza the best of this one. I would change "The City may be" to "The City is" just to be definite about things. I also liked the crisp-crunch interchange. Clever.

Back to top

Danny-DeVine


Member

Posted Sun Feb 1st, 2009 7:18pm Post subject: Thoughts of a Feckless Philosopher...
Thank you, glad you liked it

Re: "The City may be my mistress" i was going for the tone of "it's true that the City is my mistress, but..." but looking at it, i think you're right


Back to top