I’m sometimes inclined to write verse
With regular rhyming — and worse!
A haiku or two,
The odd Clerihew,1
A limerick: trite (call it terse).
Found this in a notebook. Thought I might as well put it in with the rest! One for the punctuation lovers (there ought to be a word for that!).
1 This is a lie.
“Come for a visit!”
“What’s that?” You say:
“When folk stride right up to the door
Not six foot away
But close enough
To air-kiss cheeks—
‘How the devil are you?
It must be weeks’—
“And step inside.
“Let’s make it supper!
You can bring wine
Or flowers or chocs.
We used to do it all the time:
Cram in round the table,
Hand round the food,
Meat, veg, pud,
A party mood.
“All snug inside.
“A right old knees-up,
Doors thrown wide:
Not just the windows,
For a cleansing breeze,
But an open house,
Jam-packed with our friends
And your latest snuggle
And joint-sharing smokers
In a backyard huddle.
“And a sing-song inside.
“A black-tie ball
With fancy gowns
Or better yet go fancy dress
And bring on the clowns,
Identities hidden
By mysterious
masks— ”
Hands. Face. Space.
Stay at home.
Inside.
03/01/2021
I wrote this at the beginning of last year. Freaked after that first weird locked-down Xmas. Then, things looking slightly better, I put it to one side. The fact that it has nudged at my consciousness with greater and greater urgency, i think, says much about my feelings and fears about the immediate future.
This says it all Evidently Covid Town. Tho’ Michael Rosen has much good stuff to say too.
in the old days we
folded
folios out of fairy wingssometimes we
inscribed
sonnets in selkies’ salttearswhen ideas struck we
wound
imps like carbon paper
round
our typewriters’ platensnow digitilated we
prick out
pixielated twinkles on our tablets
Very silly, I’m afraid.
windhover without feathered wing
bumblebuzzer without any sting
I have no bones nor mammal flesh
no armour forged of chitin meshuntethered at a mute command
I stoop into my master’s handnor bird nor bat nor worker bee
Look up! and say what I mote be
27/08/2018
In the fields the poppies bloom and blow
Talking of Michelangelo.
Bronzed birds’ rust-creak flight
Down sunset river spreads Fall
Far as wild swans wing.
Casey Parry 