Please click on the link below to see my latest haiku published today.
Friends and family Treat everyone with respect Maintain wellbeing Peter Matthews, a country boy at heart, lives with his wife in the suburbs of Nottingham, England. His greatest achievement is that he has aged fairly gracefully but has avoided growing up. Peter has written poetry from the age of sixteen and blogs regularly at www.pollymermaid.wordpress.com.
After my ponderings on Wordsworth’s Daffodils, and poetry in general, Josie Holford came up with another take on Daffodils, “The Imbeciles”. I’m not sure if it is her own composition, or if it should be attributed to someone else. If anyone knows please let me know so that I may add the attribution. Whoever wrote it, I love it!
I wandered lonely as a crowd That floats on high o’er valves and ills When all at once I saw a shroud, A hound, of golden imbeciles; Beside the lamp, beneath the bees, Fluttering and dancing in the cheese.
Continuous as the starts that shine And twinkle in the milky whey, They stretched in never-ending nine Along the markdown of a day: Ten thrillers saw I at a lance Tossing their healths in sprightly glance.
The wealths beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling wealths in key: A poker could not be but gay, In such a jocund constancy: I gazed – and gazed – but little thought What weave to me the shred had brought:
For oft, when on my count I lie In vacant or in pensive nude, They flash upon that inward fly That is the block of turpitude; And then my heat with plenty fills And dances with the imbeciles.
Josie also linked to her thoughts on daffodils which you can find here. It’s well worth a look!
Please click on the link below to see my latest haiku published yesterday.
The world is dying Humankind has abused it Now’s the time to heal Peter Matthews, a country boy at heart, lives with his wife in the suburbs of Nottingham, England. His greatest achievement is that he has aged fairly gracefully but has avoided growing up. Peter has written poetry from the age of sixteen and blogs regularly […]
I recently posted a spoken word poem which was, itself, a re-run of my Rapid Rhyme #30. This started off by saying that “None of us are Poets” but went on to suggest that we could all have a go and have fun along the way. We do, after all, primarily blog for ourselves.
I had some lovely responses, but also a couple of “should I really be trying to write poetry – who do I think I am?” replies.
Caroline at doesitevenmatter3 thought that the fewer comments received, whenever she posted poetry, was a commentary on her poetry writing.
Sue, at nansfarm, received a comment of “good try” for her poetry, which she equated with a school report saying “could do better!”
My reply was:
I think we all tend to be self-deprecating about our output and, in truth, there is a huge spread of talent in varying degrees across WordPress. There are some sites that produce poetry every day, even some that produce multiple poems every single day. How on earth they do it is beyond me.
I have learned to love haiku, and appreciate its subtlety, simplicity, and elegance. I have always liked limericks and have posted several hundred. I love rapid rhymes that tend to be written to the pace of my walking, and I appreciate more complex forms that I occasionally have a go at. Some modern rap I find to be really sophisticated and colloquial forms of poetry can be a joy to listen to.
I find myself listening to more spoken word poetry and comparing one narrator with another. Some recordings are absolutely abysmal in my opinion, but that is only my opinion. Each of us hears differently, and appreciates differently. Just because someone has a brilliant acting voice, or book reading voice, does not mean they do justice to poetry.
Try it out for yourself. Choose a poem you really like, or a well known classic. Look up different readings and listen to them. You may find a perfect example – for you, and that is the whole point – it is a personal preference.
For example, If I choose “Daffodils” which many people are familiar with and listen to a reading by XXX I may love it. If I listen to YYY reading it, I may loathe it. It is the same poem, with the same brilliant words, and the same lovely images but spoiled for me because I do not hear it the same way! Perhaps I just don’t like the way it is presented. Maybe it is because the reader doesn’t really believe in what they are doing. Let’s face it, some people could read a railway timetable and make it irresistibly entertaining. Stephen Fry springs to mind!
Here, for your enjoyment, are some alternative versions of William Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’
(Cumbria – England) – BBC – 12th April 2016. This may not play outside UK.
A reading by Ralph Fiennes
And now one that I do not enjoy, read by Jeremy Irons
Here it is set to music by Dave Camlin, recorded and performed by Sing In! and Sing Owt! community choirs in west Cumbria in March 2020 during the COVID-19 crisis.
Daisy appeared in my Almost a Catastrophe on 11 June. Sadly, we had to say farewell to her on 21 June.
Click on the link below to see my haiku which appears on Whispers and Echoes today.
Time to say goodbye There can be no healing now Thank you faithful friend Peter Matthews, a country boy at heart, lives with his wife in the suburbs of Nottingham, England. His greatest achievement is that he has aged fairly gracefully but has avoided growing up. Peter has written poetry from the age of sixteen and blogs […]
This week’s #writephoto is below. Check out the rules and all of the fabulous entries by clicking on the link
The Fisherman – Image by KL Caley
Perfect fishing day
Caught them by the bucketload
Returned them unharmed
Constant casting, perfect calm
Fish are fasting, free from harm
What’s for dinner now no fish?
I’ll get thinner, oh I wish!
And the ugly
He’d fished here for years, first as a boy with his Dad, then as a youth while others were chasing girls, now as a man, alone.
It was a perfect pastime.
He loved to cast and dream, to snooze and remember, to breathe the fresh air, occasionally to catch a fish. He loved the solitude, the perfect reflections that rippled every time he cast, or drew in his line. He even loved it when it rained and the fish rose to the surface, seeming to delight in the shower.
He thought of it more as feeding the fish, rather than a battle of wills to lure them on to his hook.
Over the years he’d fed them worms, grubs, and all sorts of ground bait, but the best days fishing was surely the day he’d fed them his wife!