Sunday, 15 March 2015

Egg McMuffin

Poetry is dead he said
as he stared at me  
and munched at his McMuffin. 
(There is bread stuck in
between his teeth
and a spot of yoke upon his nose
and I suppose that I should tell him,
but instead gaze into those blazing eyes
as he fills my head with nothing.) 

He pontifies as he nibbles fries
(his ego all a-glowing):
You folk up north should not utter forth
of things you are unknowing. 
I find absurd you think the written word
is art in rhyme and meter,
hah (!) and if a girl can write sufficient prose,
well, I have yet to greet her. 

I don’t give a damn about these poetry slams
(nor do I, I interjected)
where drunken folk mumble poetic jokes
to those-intellectually-affected.
(He shakes his head and stops for breath now) 

(I speak I speak I speak!)
Ah sir (say I) we can’t let it die,
‘twas once all literature was poetry;
remember Gilgamesh and Beowulf,
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.

(I suppose so, he says as he texts nothing words…)

I add: Poetry is like a fine red wine,
so much better slowly sipped and savoured,
for poetry read once and rushed,
why, you miss its subtleties and flavours.

That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard (he says)
like all poets you are pretentious. 
And if I’ve offended you, well that is what I do;
I have no problem being contentious!

The fool he gloats as he grabs his coat
and with a Harrumph then off he goes,
with bread stuck ‘tween his stupid teeth
and egg running down his nose.

Anna :o]

Karin at Real Toads writes: The prompt, should you choose to accept it, is to write something inspired by a breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, coffee, snack eaten out, at the local diner, cafe, restaurant, fast food joint, even, if you wish, camp site.  

I mean this prompt to be as broad as a glass door held open by a very polite person--(you will note that in my own politeness, I make no reference to tall stacks, wideness, and hips.)  You should feel free to write from the perspective of diner, server, cook, table, plate, pancake.  If you want to write with a forked tongue, in other words, go ahead!  If you want to just go sit in a cafe and write whatever comes to mind, that's okay too.  (Just, maybe, smear some ketchup on your screen.)  

And so dear Karin – the above is my offering.  Y’know, although I (attempt to) write poetry, I do not consider myself a poet - strange maybe, but so am I…  Poets are those wonderful people who write wonderful things, masters of words.  So for me to write as if I was a poet – well maybe I am developing an ego…

Also entered at Poets United – with many thanks to the lovely Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Glane23

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

D Minor

They wait,
hushed silent,
loud     with anticipation;
centre stage he sits,
flexes fingers
loosens wrists,
addresses instrument,
becomes as one,
and so profound,
the beauty of it
rushes to the soul,
checks respiration.

slow voluntary on diapasons,
full, solemn       outpourings
of harmonious sound
kiss, steal the ear,
excite the heart;
(the beauty of it)
fills the mind,
expands the vision,
was aught ever more glorious
than this?

Anna: o]

Susan’s challenge (thank you Susan) at Poets United is that of to write a poem of a specific man who is special and I chose Handel.  I visited YouTube to find a video and elected the above.  Odd thing is (maybe) that organ music generally leaves me cold as does brass bands and definitely rap.  Handel - genius that he was - however does not leave me thus and so, to make the challenge more challenging, I wrote of music I don’t particularly like - as if I did.  And so above is my offering.  

And tonight, linked with the good folk at dVerse, hosted by Bill.  Cheers Bill! 

Video: courtesy of YouTube
Posted by: efrainc23

Thursday, 5 March 2015


Toril "Smells Like Rain"
Neath cumulonimbus clouds
fields’ fazed poppy-red:
terra firma smells of rain. 

And he, poor soul,
besmirched by those
who would secure,
decapitates the innocent
Terra firma fazed poppy-red
smells of rain.

Anna :o[

Anna at dVerse has us writing of reduction, Oulipo or surprising conceit.  I really don’t know if my effort covers any, but my purpose was to condense  or reduce what perhaps I might otherwise have written  - with a bit of metaphor thrown in.

My inspiration was that of a wonderful image at Real Toads, that of Toril “Smells Like Rain” and also an article in The Sunday Telegraph regarding Jihadi John which can be found here.

There are worrying clouds over this world of ours.