696 - Never rest

What shall I write tonight? I’ll think on it
And when I’ve had some thoughts I’ll let you know
But what I write must fit in a sonnet
As snugly as a booted foot in snow
Five feet, ten syllables per line, must flow
Or must it? I could stray off-piste, it’s true
Experiment, live dangerously, though
Like sonnets, I prefer to stay with you
Astonishingly, though our lips turn blue
It’s comforting and so I won’t shun it
Until all feeling’s gone, not just the glow
We felt at base camp when the climb was new
The view at this height, nearing the summit
Is some sight to behold, though cold winds blow
Thur 31 July 2008

681 - Sonnet workshop

This is an experimental sonnet
There’s nothing in my head so I’ll just write
Workshop-style, until something pops in it
Or maybe I’ll just write and write, not quite
Sure of what it’s about; finish in spite
Of nothing to say. A good game to play
Well here I am, halfway through; still no sight
Of any slight meaning. They get away
With this in other art forms, so I say
Why not in this one? Why not pit my wit
(That’s singular. Not ‘wits,’ I’m not that bright)
Against the lack of muse? When music plays
It’s mainly sound; the words just have to fit
Into the structure, like I’ve done tonight…
Wed 16 July 2008

626 - Drinking song

Been drinking till the dying light of spring
Dictated that we headed home by train
Or bus, or in my case, just staggering
And here I am now, safely home again
My eyes are aching and my thoughts in vain
Try to roam poetically but fall short
Of anything that could, long-term, remain
To establish itself in western thought
But maybe that’s because I haven’t caught
Enough sleep. Consequently I’m struggling
To compose eloquently, and the same
Tired nonsense is all that my thoughts have brought
I must end now, early night beckoning
My bed is calling where I’ll soon be lain
Thur 22 May 2008

561 - Train of no thought

I knew that it would happen yet again,
And sure enough it did: I lay awake
Half the night, because of the early train
To Birmingham I’d to be sure to take
To get to the meeting. Of tax we spake,
Specifically of oils excise duty,
Allowing ourselves a short coffee break,
Scanning the Brum skyline (short on beauty),
The minutes taken by quite a cutie.
My concentration proved hard to sustain,
My interest in their comments largely fake,
But I did my best. Then back to New Street,
Then back to Piccadilly. Tried in vain
To write on the train. (The noise young girls make!)
Tue 18 Mar 2008

557 - Quick - think of something!

What was this poem about? I forgot.
Oh, I remember now. I couldn’t think
Of anything to write about. No, nowt!
No inspiration came. I had to slink
Away from work empty-headed, no chink
Of inspiration glinting anywhere.
And still there’s none! Yesterday, in the pink,
I wrote so much, but today I despair.
What’s there to say? Have I an idea? Where?
Wait! An email assignment! Let’s see what
It is! Phew! That’s how I feel - on the brink
Of losing my attention span. Stale air
Scouring my skull, causing all thought to rot.
I’m an Alzheimer rhymer. Now…a drink!
Fri 14 Mar 2008

548 - Matters of anti-matter

Well done to Stephen Hawking! With sheer brain
Power he's overcome his failed body
Using the only muscle that remains -
On the right of his face - to read, study
Communicate, teach maths at Cambridge. He
Also does lecture tours, writes books, and tries
To solve the riddle, crack the mystery
Of not just how but why a Big Bang flies
Out of a singularity. Surprise
Is commonplace in the quantum domain
And still elusive is why gravity
Loosened its grip? A huge temperature rise
From anti-matter falling down the drain
Of a black hole's a possibility.
Wed 5 Mar 2008

512 - Parisian Pearl

Bon! Bon! Ma fille irai a la Sorbonne!
Bien sur, elle est particulierement heureuse.
Bien qu’elle doit etudier beaucoup maintenant,
Probablement elle voudrait etre chanteuse!
My French is very mauvais, unlike hers!
Just to confirm, Pearl’s going to Paris
In the autumn. Classic philosophers
And literature are on the study list,
But this will be her own Odyssey; this
Year spent among the best young French, ces jeunes,
Les dirigeants de demain, raconteurs,
Une nouvelle belle epoque not to be missed!
And now she’s looking forward to great fun,
Earned by her hard work in these last few years.
Tue 28 Jan 2008

500 - Sonnet 500

What’s left to say after these 500
Fourteen line musing autobiographs?
Each thought’s been fought for, purposely hunted,
Sometimes to scold but often just for laughs.
Sonnets, a toy to employ disused paths
Of my mind’s hazy, mazy winding ways;
Maybe you find them crazy, like giraffes
That sit in the front row when watching plays.
But that appears so because rhyming phrase,
Pentameters and all, sometimes wanted
To fly with their own wings, wilful seraphs
Unwilling to seek merely mortal praise.
From where they come’s not fully understood,
But I’m no good at science or at maths.
Thur 17 Jan 2008

470 - Don't say what you think. Write it.

Each of us thinks in his or her own way.
Which is reflected in the way we talk,
Though sometimes we have to watch what we say
Or change our style, for instance, when at work.
But writing doesn’t need a tongue with fork
With which to speak; shouldn’t be politic
If written for art’s sake, without the smoke
And mirrors, real feeling in the lyric.
Good writers should never try to mimic
Others that they admire, not unless they
Happen to think alike, or it won’t work;
They might fool themselves but not the public.
So what I mean, at the end of the day,
Is write what you think. Leave the lies to talk.
Tue 18 Dec 2007

461 - Morning has broken, write the first poem

Should I write poetry in the morning,
When mind is fresh but no events have passed?
It’s true the memory’s still reflecting
On yesterday, and I may well write fast.
Should I write at lunchtime, and try to cast
The office chat from my mind? That’s quite tough,
And colleagues may condemn or laugh, sarcast-
ic in the kitchen, but time’s saved. Enough
Other things to do when back home. There’s stuff
Like writing that novel in the evening,
Which is why poems can’t be left till last,
But should be quickly drafted, off the cuff,
When mind is fresh but time is short. Dawning
Impressions are like crystal water splashed.
Sun 9 Dec 2007

428 - Thinking, drinking and inking

I sit here with a beer, near desperate
To hear clearly my disappearing muse
Though friendships end, I still depend on great
Thoughts sending, wending their way, splendid hues
That dazzle, hassle-free, castle-top views
That pass all puzzled muzzled logic's bounds
That grind of finding binding lines that fuse
The mind and blind feelings rhymed with such sounds
That emphasise the length and strength of mounds
Of penned ponderings, when will it then abate?
Not till the thrill is filled from which amuse-
ment spills, time's killed, my will is paid in pounds
Or dollars, while scholars follow my fate
Solitary fellows in yellow-lit pews

Tue 6 Nov 2007

325 - Is this world real, or is it in my head?

Is this world real, or is it in my head?
Readers, do you exist, or has my mind,
Without my knowing, fathered you instead,
And, if so, am I God, but somehow blind
To my own creation? I am inclined
To think not. Think of what happens each day
When we lose keys or umbrella, then find
Them once again in a strange place where they
Don’t normally belong. Our minds are prey
To amnesia, but the world’s larger head,
Like an old elephant’s, has rich stores, mined
By all creation, each second, each day.
So your minds mine mine, as this work is read,
And we find keys to all mysteries combined.
Thur 26 July 2007

320 - Taste is such a strange thing: each to their own

Taste is such a strange thing: each to their own;
I like orange juice but can’t eat the fruit,
And as for tomatoes, they are unknown
To my plate and palate, despite repute.
And then there’s women: those I think are cute,
Other women laugh at, though men agree
Sometimes with me; their clothing may not suit,
But that’s not always important to me.
And we’ve not mentioned art, philosophy,
Religion, politics (forbidden zone?)
Or what in friends is the best attribute,
Or where to go on next year’s holiday.
But vive la difference: to be a clone
Of peers or parents would make interest mute.
Sat 21 July 2007

316 - I knew what I was going to write about

I knew what I was going to write about
A few hours back, but then I dyed my hair,
Made coffee, and spent some time finding out
About hotels in Suffolk. There’s a fair
Chance that me and the family may go there
On holiday, the last week in August.
There’s plenty of beaches, and the sea air,
And quaint cottages, and boats; yes, we must
Try to get away, for Josephine’s just
Impossible stuck in the house. She’ll shout
And jump and flop, and say that it’s not fair,
At home all through the last week of August.
I’ve still not recalled my idea. I doubt
There’s time and space now. Oh, I remember…
Tue 17 July 2007

314 - When I sit down to write, I don't know what

When I sit down to write, I don’t know what
I’m going to write about, and those readers
Familiar with my work perhaps will not
Be surprised I write whatever occurs.
For it is such a big old universe
That there is no excuse for writer’s block,
Although all of us sometimes feel its curse,
And then feel we belong under a rock!
There’s our own past, people we know, a shock
We had today, a joke, maybe a hot
News topic, or a song that inspires us,
Or someone or something we want to mock.
Poetry’s strength is that there’s not a lot
Of forethought needed: just write what occurs!
Sun 15 July 2007

301 - Perfection is absence of mark or flaw

Perfection is absence of mark or flaw,
Perhaps a blank white page or field of snow,
Pale skin so smooth, not partially burned raw,
Proud nature, untamed by man’s axe or hoe.
Eden was an idea designed to show
Even God’s own creature was now in sin,
Ending natural balance, made to go
Ever further from happiness within.
Religion, art, mathematics, even,
Regret the expulsion and struggle for
Return to harmony, although we know
Realistically, that it has never been.
For to see worldly chaos, eyes abhor;
False shapes, cave shadows, once seen by Plato.
Mon 2 July 2007

268 - I land our shuttle on Electron Three

I land our shuttle on Electron Three,
Despite a wicked hail of neutrinos
Restricting airstrip visibility
And covering it with slippery snows.
We wait and watch as the nucleus goes
Down under the horizon, then descend
Onto the sticky surface. We are close;
Maybe we’ll find something behind this bend.
After six hours of searching, at the end
Of my powers, in need of energy,
I find it, and am transfixed. How it glows!
I think my report back, ask them to send
More juice, and, rested, refreshed, smile as we
All carry back the treasure our computer chose.
Wed 30 May 2007

239 - A writer in another universe

A writer in another universe
Was feeling hungry, but he struggled on.
It takes so long, he thought, to write my verse.
Oh, where on zorg is my inspiration?
But during that last word’s long duration,
My earth was born in flame, cooled, lived and died,
Again in flame. And what a creation
Was that man’s desk! It was so long and wide,
Ten of my galaxies would fit from side
To side, within its left-hand drawer. A curse
Against his ineffectual god upon
His lips, ambitions to be big denied,
And health declining. Could things get much worse?
Life’s short, he thought, and put the kettle on.
Tue 1 May 2007

199 - True love can never die, not even when

True love can never die, not even when
Your partner tells you they’ve been unfaithful,
They’ve lost your money in a gambling den
And lost a limb or two in some awful
Mishap. Perhaps your love would collapse? Full
Of dashed ambition, rash derision’s flung
At your ex-love. Excellent sex life? Skull-
Like. Dead. Sacked: abject failure, nailed or hung
Out to dry, though subject of love songs sung
Yesterday. Pestered, scorned, vilified; then
Replaced, officially forgotten. Mull
This over. If your ‘love’ was ever strung
From the lamp-post of imagination,
Then you were just as (or more) untruthful.
Thur 22 Mar 2007

115 - You can fly round my empty skull tonight

You can fly round my empty skull tonight.
No thoughts are there, so there’s no turbulence.
My memories, they’re out of mind, out of sight,
Because of this thick fog that swirls so dense.
It seems like all I want to do is catch
A film, or go for a drive somewhere and
Listen to music, eat, drink and despatch
Another day, another grain of sand.
Being a vegetable has its ups:
It’s free of stress, anyone can do it.
If there’s a Jack, I’ll play the beanstalk. Woops!
Someone’s coming with an axe in his mitt.
Here’s to a peaceful evening, free from thought,
With DVD and popcorn I just bought.
Thur 28 Dec 2006