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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4)
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mr. mustard
21-03-2014
I've skimmed the latest poems and they're all great I'll come to the library early tomorrow and read them properly

Welcome to the thread Finisher Don't be discouraged by the lack of feedback, someone always responds eventually! I'll read your ode tomorrow too - I hope you stick around and post again
sandydune
21-03-2014
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Hi everyone

I haven't been around, as I've had a sort of minor nervous breakdown
”

Hello Musty, sorry to hear you haven't been well, try and carry on with your poems, it might give you something to focus on and make you feel a little better each day.
mr. mustard
25-03-2014
Originally Posted by sandydune:
“Hello Musty, sorry to hear you haven't been well, try and carry on with your poems, it might give you something to focus on and make you feel a little better each day.”

Thanks Sandy

I'm over the worst of it now - as with severe depression, mental illness is something you can learn from over time.

Writing-wise it can unlock many doors
mr. mustard
25-03-2014
Bells Tubular

Awesome chimes of silver,
Nothing here repels,
Seagull, bones and starfish,
That's Tubular bells.

Glockenspiel, timpani,
Fuzz guitar remote,
Piltdown Man, acoustic,
Headphones on, you float.

Introductions merge in
Hippie Bonzo Viv,
Many sales for Virgin,
Many souls, we live.

Soon a caring mother
And a busy nun
Pass in autumn sunshine,
Serious but fun.

Twisted looping silver
From a demo tape,
Haunting bells of mystic,
Tubular in shape.


©
mr. mustard
25-03-2014
I don't know my way round the library computers like my old kaput one For those baffled by the 'nun' reference above, it refers to The Exorcist. Part of Tubular bells was used in the soundtrack. A Google on YouTube for Exorcist walk scene should let you see it

A classic film - even the unscary bits are brilliant, as a successful search for the clip will show
sandydune
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Thanks Sandy

I'm over the worst of it now - as with severe depression, mental illness is something you can learn from over time.
”

How are you today?

Maybe go for a little walk, though amongst the noise , the hustle and bustle, know that there is sometimes a little stillness, you can find somewhere for a while that may ease your troubles.
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by sandydune:
“How are you today?

Maybe go for a little walk, though amongst the noise , the hustle and bustle, know that there is sometimes a little stillness, you can find somewhere for a while that may ease your troubles.”

I'm fine thanks Sandy I've spent the day in lovely historic Horsham, buying books and relaxing. I also had a jacket potato and salad for lunch there I generally tend to avoid noise wherever I go.

I've caught up on lots of sleep lately too. Thanks for your concern
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by Noe Soap:
“Tom Story
Tom'd rather devour your pasty
Or any leftovers best unwasted”

Nice one Frank - as a great fan of cats I can vouch for their selective taste buds

I love moggy poems
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by Biz:
“I like that idea. Presumably you'll start with the poems for the younger children? Have you thought of having them in slightly larger, simple print, reverting to a more normal size for the older ones?”

That's a good idea about the print Biz, I never thought of that. I'm also looking at the size of the book, I think a smaller one would suit kids better
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by MRSgotobed:
“So when you’re feeling frisky and life needs a bit of spice
Get your swingers on the line, washed and ready to entice.”

Hilarious Mrs Goto Your poems are always so well written and funny

Womens' underwear on a washing line is a first for the thread and a very welcome one! I wish some of it would land on me
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by archiver:
“I wasn't expecting the last line, but it just had to go in. ”

Thanks for the extra info John - a re-read is now due
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by flower 2:
“My knickers held up for the longest of time,
swung weekly billowing on my washing line.”

I can see a pattern emerging here I'm now anticipating Flower and MrsGoto's epic volume The Secret Life Of Knickers
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by scottie2121:
“Well I think it can be really good to work within a very tight structure as it means the writer has to think very carefully about each word and how the structure should come second to what is being conveyed. For me, poetry is a condensed form of language that doesn't just carry it's meaning in the words but also in what it can evoke through rhythm, rhyme, imagery etc etc.”

A fascinating post Scottie I tend to write within a tight structure, but of late I'm trying to loosen up a bit. While I like both the examples you've posted, in truth I prefer your normal style. I hope you don't take this as criticism, it's just my personal taste in poetry I answered your post a while back - the poem in question was about walking around after the New Year celebrations
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by The Finisher:
“Laden mists of linen grey
bathed in seas of melancholy

I think I must have wrote this when I was a bit pissed off ”

I know that feeling Finisher What I love about poetry is how it shines a light on both joy and misery. Your ode catches the despair well
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by sandydune:
“Chuckle to me, chuckle to you
little ways, always shine thru”

Yes indeed Sandy, it's the little acts of kindness that make the day go smoothly They never make the news, but they exist all the same. I thoroughly enjoyed Ways
mr. mustard
27-03-2014
Originally Posted by Noe Soap:
“Like gold a noble daffodil yields a treasure for the eye,
an array of optical pleasure then doffs its cap goodbye.”

Nice to see you dipping your quill in the Romantic inkwell Frank Apart from lovely bluebells, what other flower than the humble daff can inspire such bliss? No wonder Wordsworth's poem became immortal. Your versatility is always evident and this tribute to the 'golden host' is terrific
mr. mustard
28-03-2014
Glastonbury Tor

Summer, set
The pilgrims rolling,
Somerset,
A bell is tolling.

High and green
Lie sloping glories,
Calling us
The pagan Tor is.

On the line
Of good St Michael,
Climbing up
The ancient cycle.

Nearly there,
The view is splendid,
Angels with
King Arthur blended.

Laugh and drink
And all make merry
On the hill
Of Glastonbury.


©
MRSgotobed
28-03-2014
Musty, I love it. Your poems make me want to pack up (my knickers) and take a trip around UK. There is so much I have not yet seen and you have a knack of projecting that image, so I always feel the atmosphere.

I don't know how you write the volume you do though, all to such a beautiful quality.I get the bare bones of it, but it takes a bit longer to tinker with it until it feels right.Just a little on the slow side, but I never want to force it. Also, mine aren't exactly deep, other poems on here are breathtaking in their story and content.
mr. mustard
28-03-2014
Originally Posted by MRSgotobed:
“Musty, I love it. Your poems make me want to pack up (my knickers) and take a trip around UK.”

Thanks Mrs Goto

Like you, only a handful of my poems have ever flowed out quickly - even a short piece like Glastonbury Tor took many corrections and re-writes. And a lifelong fear of flying allowed me instead to mine Britain's incredible history. Ibeza just doesn't do it for me
mr. mustard
29-03-2014
Dreamland Is My Home

Dreamland is a gorgeous place,
On the beach I comb
For the Faerie Pebble Queen,
Dreamland is my home.

I prefer the secrets of
Any given dell,
Walking by the traffic jams
I'm in Rivendell.

I cannot embrace the world,
You cannot see mine,
Where the paths are friendlier,
Gold and serpentine.

Head inside the clouds again,
Everywhere I roam
There is no regret at all,
Dreamland is my home.


©
mr. mustard
29-03-2014
Life is strange, as Marc Bolan once sang. I've given up making major plans, as you never know what's round the corner. I like a normal life as much as the next person, but 'truth is stranger than fiction' is a wise saying.

At least the old thread is a constant, with the few writers and non-writers here keeping what's now a DS institution alive A comfort at all times
mr. mustard
31-03-2014
Has Biz left the thread?
Has MrsGoto left the thread?
Are United going to improve next season?

I don't know the answers, but I think I should be told
mr. mustard
31-03-2014
Séance at Eight

At good Mrs Frobisher's house I arrived,
Where afterlife traces some thought had survived,
The regulars turned up and no one was late
To try Mrs Frobisher's séance at eight.

I chatted a while with both Horace and Maud,
Who spoke of their lifelong belief in the Lord
And while tea and cake for our group were reserved,
Old Horace preferred the red wine that was served.

The wallpaper gleamed, William Morris I think,
An elegant pattern in pale green and pink,
The bookcase included a few HG Wells,
Two Huxleys and Betjeman's Summoned By Bells.

In time Mrs Frobisher said 'Let's begin!',
We sat at the table where she sipped a gin,
I didn't feel scared but I sensed I soon might
As we all held hands and she turned off the light.

My seat was between Mr Grant and Hortense,
The aura seemed taut and grew even more tense
When in a voice sounding increasingly strange
Our hostess informed us a soul was in range.

I waited with patience then started to doubt
If anything spectral would scamper about,
Relaxing a little, I opened my eyes
And that's when I heard the most mournful of sighs.

I knew that it wasn't the mind playing tricks,
Exhaling four feet off some might even fix,
But not Mrs frobisher, one place from me
Who'd only let real paranormal forms free.

I'm sure Horace put the sigh down to the wine
And I felt a tingle shoot right up my spine,
Though after our medium whispered 'Who's there?'
No further response came from out of the air.

The windows grew wetter from soft evening rain,
Politely, she asked her late guest to explain;
Despite the room's darkness no phantom replied,
The only sound heard was the shower outside.

She turned on the light and she called it a day,
Informed us the presence had gone on its way
And I in a mystified, magical state
Left good Mrs Frobisher's séance at eight.


©
archiver
31-03-2014
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Life is strange, as Marc Bolan once sang. I've given up making major plans, as you never know what's round the corner. I like a normal life as much as the next person, but 'truth is stranger than fiction' is a wise saying.

At least the old thread is a constant, with the few writers and non-writers here keeping what's now a DS institution alive A comfort at all times ”

I fully acknowledge that sentiment Musty and I've mentioned before how beneficial I've found it to pop in here to read the latest and be taken far away from the troubles besetting. Like today. Didn't expect to be in that stuffy old room with Mrs Frobisher and the others, and yet, if I could paint...

You seem to just keep getting better and better.

Sorry to hear you've had a bit of instability. Glad to see you've come through it unscathed and intact.

Hoping Biz is OK...
scottie2121
01-04-2014
Sylvia

outside
in the park
the primroses
lie buried
sealed in ice
their blue moth-wing petals
gripped
in crystal-glass
frozen
a thick muffled laying
numbs the square
and seals the door
to its frame

How you lay under the heavy stench
of anaesthetic,
floating yourself free
from your savage god.
Downstairs
you’d neatly folden your kittens,
putting them from harm’s way,
sops ready
for the frozen white air of the morning
and the call that never came.

poppy red figures
burn
into the frozen
landscape
trudging home
hunched
over the snow
clouded breath
punctuating
the heavy
chilled air

Who is that figure,
apparelled in black,
at the back of the church?
Who is that who observes the rites and committals?
Who, cleft-footed,
merges with the tombstones
and looks on so dispassionately
as they process
from the church,
accounts in hands,
torn pages in pockets.

They bound you hand and foot
and dragged you down
over the landscape
of grey blasted gravestones.
Then laid you down,
renamed,
reclaimed,
sea-shells covering your eyes
and cold clay stopping your mouth.
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