Now legend tells of a mountain-round hereparts, wherepon if sleep the weary hillock overcome, and restful lies aslumber thereupon, you comes down a poet or the mad. Yes. If you stay awake despite the views, then someone asleep in Australia becomes a butterfly. If he flaps his wings in iambic tetrameter, with the odd trocheedactylenjambent, then a tsunami shakes Yorkshire like a gay kiss. Yes. Something like that.
Anyway, when Gwyneth ap Owen went up there, it was raining...
GaO:-
A raindrop fell
Glistened -
Diamond snaked and honey,
Combed the blades
A raindrop vale
Rested.
Filter crystal slope distil
And thought collected
A raindrop high
Flamed!
Free herefar alight aloft
Sought heart's desire
A raindrop cold
Iced!
Peaked the cap
Or fractal fractured echo
Avalanche! advanced to war.
REJ:- er...
GaO:- Wel, it's simple. I have sought to enlist the harmony of metrical language, the ethereal combinations of the fancy, the rapid and subtle transitions of human passion, all those elements which essentially compose a Poem, in the cause of a liberal and comprehensive morality; and in the view of kindling within the bosoms of my readers, a virtuous enthusiasm for those doctrines of liberty and justice, that faith and hope in something good, which neither violence, nor misrepresentation, nor prejudice can ever totally extinguish among mankind. Isn't it? -
REJ:- Plagiarism is a sin. Very wrong. Always think for yourself. Now write that down 100 times.
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Talent borrows, genius steals, mediocrity mirrors.
ReplyDeleteYes! Yes, keep going forever.
ReplyDeleteBorder Disorder
ReplyDeleteCan you love a country?
Without knowing all its dales.
Its hills. Its history.
How foolish is the mortal who worships pomp and circumstance
And anthems played in brass
And patriotic emblemings
And foggy stews of motorways
With smells of Yorkshire puddings.
Can you love a person?
Without knowing all her thoughts.
Her scars. Her memories.
How silly is the soul who yearns for flesh and whisperings
And lashes grown from protein chains
And ruffled sheets in shapes of angels
And heartbeats raced by hormone-fuelled imaginings.
I long to be a rational rock.
Unmoved. Unfathoming. Unmemorable.
Give me the pebble life.
Round and smooth and spotless.
To lie on shorelines and await a hand
To skim me to the crests until slowing
The drop drop drop down ten thousand unfathoms deep.
Sympathetic Symphony
ReplyDeleteLet me be lonely to find friendship in a word;
Echoes of dances soft spoken to a lyre.
Whispers of stardust and passions overheard
From shadowed voices all gathered round a fire.
The script connects thought the faces are unknown.
The flow sears through with its cold persistent path.
Thus speaks creation with meaning as mine own.
I meet my maker in pre-writ epitaph.