I Joined the Poetry Writing Circle
How I wish I’d Been Born French or German
Those Italians have it Easy, Everything seems to end in A or I or O
An Exercise in Self Analysis and Introspection
I thought I’d join a group to make some friends
And at the same time, make amends,
For wasted time when in my youth,
I failed to learn the bitter truth,
That learning may seem boring in the extreme
But knowledge is not Naff as it may seem.
So I’ve come to dear Jack Palmistry
For help in writing decent poetry.
But how, I’ve found since in my school days,
My poetic tastes have changed in one or two ways.
When Sir, said “Write a poem of your best toy,”
My Teddy featured strongly; he was my joy.
And my rhyming, and my meter
Could hardly have been sweeter,
Well it is when you’re eleven,
And your Mum and Gran like it anyway because they LOVE you.
But then adolescence came between me
And the Human Race in general. Believe me!
And my poems took on an Apocalyptic flavour.
(And if you’ll excuse the wobbly rhyme) my writing and behaviour
Fell between the actions of a Slut and Ma Teresa.
I had given up fluffy bunnies for the razor!!!
I would change the world around me and learn to love my brother.
But I was buggered if I could put up with my Mother.
She criticised my purple prose
Where heaving bosoms fell and rose.
And laughed at my erotic stuff as well
Where heaving bosoms also rose and fell.
So I couldn’t quite decide
Between Socialism and Matricide.
Then I became obsessed as teenage poets go,
With the end of mortal coils and depressions deep and low.
Then BLOOD and DEATH and PUTREFACTION
Gave me written satisfaction.
But now ‘neath Mr Palmistry.
I’m scrutinising another me.
My poetic content has quite changed.
From when my hormones were rearranged.
I understand the Subjunctive Clause,
Much better since the menopause.
And somehow now, Autumnal skies
And fluffy kittens; babies’ cries;
Friends and neighbours; shopping trips;
Windy beaches; sailing ships;
All fill my notebook, but I still despair.
I still fall at meter. And those rhyming words aren’t there.
It would be easier if I didn’t have to find
A rhyme for words of the poetic kind.
I push and pull till adjectives follow the relevant noun
I search through my Thesaurus until I think I’ve found
A word to rhyme with another, but then it’s quite absurd
The word I’ve been looking for turns out to be a verb.
Oh if only I were German. It can’t be so hard for them.
All sentences end in verbs. All their verbs sound the same.
Or what about being Italian? Rhyming along as they go?
All words end in “I” or “A” if they don’t end in an “O”
But it’s terribly hard in English. The language is a sod.
I’ve been trying to write a poem, and it really is quite odd.
Mr Palmistry gave us “Nostalgia”, and said “Write a bit,
Using bloody Iambic Pentameter." Well frankly, who gives a shit?
And then I end up with “sunset sky of orange”
I think I’ll do a course in car maintenance or landscape gardening or finger knitting when this is over.
Erato wondered if Iambic Pentameter was quite suitable for a Greeting Card.
Clio contemplating someting deeply poetic
Or was it just a Senior Moment?
The above is an advertisement for Dulcie cards.
All names & addresses are purely fictional; any similarities between persons, living or dead are coincidental & the product of a deranged mind.
Raj liked the attention when Matron was designing his costume for the production of Cleopatra, but the rest of the Poetry Circle thought it was a bit disconcerting.
And have to force a long interminable line (which doesn’t scan) about how much fun it was to shop at Gorringes.