I know I write too much

of this crappy poetry

“Nature” “sadness” “you”

then “me” “me” “me” “me””me”

I write it for many reasons

most too hard to explain

but once I start my writing

it becomes almost a game;

I’m player one, Literacy two,

I feel it then he rhymes

and so we work together,

it doesn’t take much time,

which is why too many syllables

sometimes mean I am offbeat –

that is Literacy taking lead

but I won’t accept defeat!

This poem is what I call a “quickie”, that I knocked out one evening. It seems, on the surface, to be simply a silly rhyme - this is intentional! As an English Literature student, hoping to lecture poetry as one of my primary teaching jobs, I have studied a variety of poems with a variety of teachers in a variety of methods.

What I dislike about the modern English course is the way poems are broken down to the point of permanent disintegration. Mistake me not; I understand how to study poetry, and I appreciate the extreme breakdown to an extent, but what annoys me is the way certain blindingly obvious elements which would have contributed to the poem are totally ignored.

The most obvious example in literature of an overlooked factor contributing to the finished project is to do with Dickens; how frequently do so many people forget that Dickens was paid by the page? “Why do you think he decided to spend such long time repeating his description of the walls in ’A Tale Of Two Cities’?”Well whether or not he possessed some extreme desire to repeat his intricate description of the walls, I am quite sure that the prospect of more money might have had the slightest amount to do with it.

Back to poetry; when discussing why the poet used this exact word at this exact point with this exact number of syllables, I feel I must restrain myself from leaping onto the table and screaming “Because it fits into their chosen rhyming scheme! Why does everyone seem to think that poets think their thoughts and feel their feelings naturally in rhyme?!”

’Tis a small point I am making here, and of course I understand the thought and time and effort that goes into writing poetry (I have written better pieces than this, surprisingly!), I just thought for a moment, that we should imagine a poet who quite literally sees writing poetry as an entertaining, money-making game; who thinks a rhyme is a rhyme, belittles the content therefore bewildering the frantic GCSE student.

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I know I write too much

of this crappy poetry

“Nature” “sadness” “you”

then “me” “me” “me” “me””me”

I write it for many reasons

most too hard to explain

but once I start my writing

it becomes almost a game;

I’m player one, Literacy two,

I feel it then he rhymes

and so we work together,

it doesn’t take much time,

which is why too many syllables

sometimes mean I am offbeat –

that is Literacy taking lead

but I won’t accept defeat!

This poem is what I call a “quickie”, that I knocked out one evening. It seems, on the surface, to be simply a silly rhyme - this is intentional! As an English Literature student, hoping to lecture poetry as one of my primary teaching jobs, I have studied a variety of poems with a variety of teachers in a variety of methods.

What I dislike about the modern English course is the way poems are broken down to the point of permanent disintegration. Mistake me not; I understand how to study poetry, and I appreciate the extreme breakdown to an extent, but what annoys me is the way certain blindingly obvious elements which would have contributed to the poem are totally ignored.

The most obvious example in literature of an overlooked factor contributing to the finished project is to do with Dickens; how frequently do so many people forget that Dickens was paid by the page? “Why do you think he decided to spend such long time repeating his description of the walls in ’A Tale Of Two Cities’?”Well whether or not he possessed some extreme desire to repeat his intricate description of the walls, I am quite sure that the prospect of more money might have had the slightest amount to do with it.

Back to poetry; when discussing why the poet used this exact word at this exact point with this exact number of syllables, I feel I must restrain myself from leaping onto the table and screaming “Because it fits into their chosen rhyming scheme! Why does everyone seem to think that poets think their thoughts and feel their feelings naturally in rhyme?!”

’Tis a small point I am making here, and of course I understand the thought and time and effort that goes into writing poetry (I have written better pieces than this, surprisingly!), I just thought for a moment, that we should imagine a poet who quite literally sees writing poetry as an entertaining, money-making game; who thinks a rhyme is a rhyme, belittles the content therefore bewildering the frantic GCSE student.

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We bought Chandeliers, I painted the house Black and Blue. He gave me a tall prickly cactus for Xmas and a nasty bladder infection.

Eyeliner and greasy hair he kissed me a New Year, soo skinny he said “baby” then turned away. He said “baby” then turned away again slowly. Cigarette pants and pointy shoes he danced like a gay lady.

Antique painting, Vintage dress of navy color, dusty old room with hardwood floor. I cried, when I saw his mother it was her that I loved more. I’d known her from many years before.

Peered silhouette of grand piano and faded ancient statue through opened door. Early morning Sunray Glimmered past window upon her face, skin freckled with ginger.

Embarrassed, she said she hadn’t yet painted her face, beige lipstick and false lashes. Embarrassed, she knew she was beautiful and walked about the house naked. He said she cooked as she painted, overlapping green asparagus and yellow lemon circles. He said she lived as she painted, delicate flower wilting in front of gilded mirror.

One day he surprised me recoiling he blamed her affection lavished on her dogs, her horses and not people. He pained over her love for things and not him. With tears he said he despised and hated her.

Spring is freedom and in springtime he left me for Paris. In a letter, he complained about chasing away rats from food chilled on a windowsill. He complained about toothaches and poverty, but he had married a bass guitar in a jazz band long ago and said or vowed he’d never be rich.

She followed him eventually to paint and grow flowers in a perfect country cottage garden, living on daddy’s will and trust. I never saw them again but heard she had stolen away a French woman’s husband.

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What are we going to do in the

crude light of the daytime?

When we no longer have darkness to shroud ourselves in and blame for depressive thoughts? When I was in bed, you know how it is, your mind just goes wild, haha, I can’t believe what was I even thinking of?

What do we do when we can’t blame it on the elements? when the weather just got me down, did you see the clouds, I hate the rain? when I was just so hot, it was making me uncomfortable, you know how it is when you get so hot you can’t think straight? when I was just being silly, oh stop it, ignore me honestly I’m absolutely fine, I don’t know what came over me, gosh how embarrassing?

What do we do when we can’t blame nature? when oh sorry wrong time of the month, ignore me, you know how it is, you must have had it yourself, gosh when it comes I don’t know what comes over me, don’t mean to be crude, maybe I should get some pills, oh no, stop it, haha?

What is there left to blame when we take these away? Who else makes us think dark things? What possible element of the world, Of life, could it possibly be? Who else, What else, are you going to blame? Well maybe we should own up to it? well was it really me thinking, I don’t think it now, it was just my kvetch, I’m really quite happy now, do I still need to worry because I’m sure I’m fine now? why was I sad, does it really matter seeing as I’m not bothered any more, look I’m smiling, just a mere lapse in my optimism, everyone has them, don’t you think?

Do you think maybe that sometimes negative thoughts just exist? do you think that maybe people force them away for so long that when it’s too windy, when it’s too cold, when it’s too hot, when it’s wet, when it’s dark, when I’m bored, when it’s that time again, that I have to indulge myself in this pit of darkness otherwise the world will end, I’ll die, I have to be sad now, I know I do, it’s that time, it’s too dark, too bright, I have a headache, it’s too harsh, too opaque, please I ache, make it break, make it stop, I don’t care, let it drop, I have to be sad, I have to be sad, I have to be sad.

Why do I have to be sad?

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A sight for sore eyes, you were there

Gently brushing along my arm, driving me to a crazed point of loyalty

Every single day, you were always there

To reduce the shattered droplets of liquid during my era of sadness

You were there, drawing limbs around my sides with a snug hold and you were lovely

Softly whispering into the night, capturing insomnia to banish it away

Every single day, you were always there

To battle against a hard shell of former disappointment I once had

One particular day, there was an absence of a thousand words

My ears were filled with nothing and my eyes held no reflection of pure beauty

The shattered droplets came again, the revolution of sadness brought forth

My sides felt weak, with no support nor comfort

And nothing was left except the endless insomnia that I would battle for years at a time

This was a special poem I wrote a few years ago and recently found in my self storage container. When I wrote it, I dedicated it to those who have lost a loved one. If you have suddenly been torn away from a family, lover, or friend - I am sure you know how much strength it takes to overcome the pain. In this poem, I have demonstrated how each day was like being around your spouse. Every day, they would come home from work and you both talk amongst each other. They would always make you fall asleep quickly, because every time your husband or wife visits their family without you - it’s just impossible to get sleep. Why is this? It’s because you miss them so much. Before, you were just a sad and lonely being without anyone to share your life with. Imagine one day, waiting for your spouse to get home and nothing happens. Being torn apart without saying goodbye can be one of the most excruciating things you may go through in life, but by writing poetry or talking with someone about it - you can ease the hurtful experience.

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Watching the water fall from the sky

Tears fall so freely I wonder why.

Why is it so hard to do

That which needs to be done.

I look in the mirror

I do not recognize what I see.

The dark circles and stringy hair

Cannot be that which is me.

The stress of life has overwhelmed

The joy has all but disappeared.

Where did the sunshine go to?

Why are only the shadows left?

My family looks at me and wonders

Where has my wife and mother gone.

I think to myself the same

Myself has become invisible.

Is there a way out?

A way to stop the pain

That doesn’t involve leaving

Leaving those that love me so.

I want to laugh and run and play

I’m not sure how to say

It doesn’t always work the way

We want it too.

I want to sing and dance

To give my family and me a chance.

A chance to be truly happy

A chance to love me and for me

To love them.

Like birds on the wind

I long to be free.

I long to love freely

I long to play freely.

I watch as the water falling

Now has stopped.

The rain or the tears both

Slow to a trickle.

The water has washed away

The pains of old

And allowed the renewal

Of life to begin.

The seeds of love

Planted long ago.

They have been covered

And now are washed clean.

The weeds are gone

The garden in cleaned.

The flower in me is struggling

To grow free from the confines.

The question remains

Is there enough sunshine

To move out the clouds

Of sadness that overwhelmed.

This poem is about how a “woman”or “mom”can lose touch with her inner soul. She becomes invisible to herself. She becomes desperate to end her sadness of forgetting her true identity and live life freely again.

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I remember when my first son was born it was an exciting and fearful time. Exciting just because it was our first child and fearful because of the challenge ahead in bringing him up the right way. We were both fairly young people in our twenties and both of us from fairly large families.

Yes expectations were high but as I looked forward I wondered what his life would be in another thirty years. It’s never good to try and predict an outcome when you cannot know all the variables and are in control of only one, yourself.

I am now a father and with that title come an enormous responsibility. Yes, I will have to ‘wing it’ at times since he came without and directions or warnings.

Thank God my parents were alive then as I relied on them a lot for guidance. I wanted to be the best father I could, turns out I never could have guessed how many hand towels I would go through in the first year. I never thought that kids were just that messy until I had one of my own, after tidying up one of his spills late one night I wrote this poem as a tribute to my first born and the life I pray he will live.