Another revised poem this post. I was not happy with the previous version, you can read that here. I discussed it with the Secret Poets and they helped clarify my misgivings.
The classic murder mystery continues
to disappoint
My book is read once again
I must walk through the head of the reader
and overhear to their thoughts
The author may deploy
sleight of hand
far fetched coincidences
then withhold vital information
until the final chapter
We are
gathered in the library
yes it smacks of desperation I know
shamed as I am by my exposure
my outlandish confession
the other characters look away
And you
dear reader sigh
think how trite the ending is
But hold on one moment
is any better constructed
I think it has a clearer narrative now and I have removed the last line. Time for it to go away again for another couple of months.
I usually title my posts from a line in the poem but last week I used a line from this revised poem by mistake. First time I have ever done that in 11 years. Apologies.
This poem is a rewrite, with thanks as usual to the Secret Poets for their invaluable input. You can read the original here.
summer project
we broke all the glass
in all the windows
no one stopped us
it took time
but the sounds were so addictive
the crack and cascade of glass
eyeless in autumn
a cold wind hummed in the gaps
the snow went wherever it would
Essentially the ending has changed, the Secrets felt that it was not clear. Hopefully the poem is much improved. I would be interested in your opinion.
This past week I have been immersing myself in the exciting world of The Mountain Goats, this is a song entitled Cotton. The last verse is sadly beautiful.
Thanks must go to the Secret Poets yet again, both for such an enjoyable day on Monday and for their perceptive feedback on the revised poems in this post.
This first poem has transformed from third to first person.
travelling in times of unusual weather
I had
expected more delays
but the trains ran through the heatwave
slowed only by a series of failed signals
we were
handed
plastic bottles of warm water
until the supply ran out
the heat in the final station
stole the sweat from our
skin
this is how the world burns
You can read the earlier draft here. The use of first person makes it far more immediate.
This second poem has been winnowed down, each word appraised and only the essential ones remain.
Poems Are Everywhere
airborne invisible
they circle the world
one of us may catch
a whisper in the ear
some write
down
the words they hear
he simply gave thanks
for every poem that chose him
I think it is now a sparer and better poem. You can read the earlier draft here. It is good practice to question every word in a poem and to ask if the poem works without it.
Some poems write themselves, others are never finished, at least not to my satisfaction. This post's poem is one of those. You can read my last attempt here. I was looking at it the other day and thought that I had not done the concept justice. What I wanted to do was to make the situation clear, the man who sold us all down the river is justifying his actions, inventing gratitude and praise where none existed in real life.
inside
the head of the man who sold us all down the river
I
am in
his thoughtsagain
however
briefly
manifested
inside his head
the
puppet me embodied
simply
to make his point
A
steward orders
me
to stand on this spot
I
am given
appropriate clothing
[nothing
I would have chosen for myself]
and
told exactly what to say
bland
badly written dialogue
to
support his noble actions
[not
the words I spoke to
him at
the time
or
even a rough approximation]
I
have been thought into existence before
not
very often, usually when he needs
to
illustrate his marvellous achievements
or
the nobility of his actions to some new acquaintance
so
I
step forward to speak my lines
sickly
words
of gratitude
how
I could only ever have respect for the man
I
stand in his consciousness
one
of many phantoms
we
bow and scrape, thank him
[the
opposite of what happened in real life]
before
we disappear again
as
I said this sort of event doesn't happen often
usually
the likes of me never enter his head
not
even for one second
Have I caught it this time? Let's see if there is another draft five years hence. Here's another little poem I've been playing with for years. Again have I done it justice?
domesticated
me ironing
unexpected
you gift bearing
we
watch the bad brewed home brew
shoot
towards the ceiling
marvel
as it foams undrinkable
you
left in the rain
in-between
the slanting drops
infinity
winked at us and smiled
Here are The Mountain Goats with a song about vampires.
