And, uh ... Cornwall.
Yeah! Why not? It's the last post of the week.
Anyway ...
Yeah, I'll have a go at that rough draft for the VERY BIG POEM ... tomorrow and Friday. No 3-hour sessions. I'll just go for it, morning to night, you dig? When I'm not doing other stuff, like blog-related stuff, obviously. Or washing my hair.
Anyway, I been thinking ... what was the last poem written that your average person in the street knows about and can maybe quote from? I say it's got to be This Be The Verse, written by Philip Larkin in, uh ... 1971. 1971. 1971.
Never mind, eh?
Oh, I've still only got seven poems, kooks. Been scrapping a lot, you see.
Now, if you put a poem online, you can't send it to a magazine or put it in a competition, BUT(!) ... I think you can still put it in a volume one day. Yes, I'm sure you can.
Anyway, here's my most minor of the seven ...
Deleted, because I'm rewriting it.
Yeah, it's just a little thing. I actually wrote it in my head while eating a cheese sandwich, believe it or not.
In sixth place, I would put On the Island ... and if you watch that CJ Explores St Ives video on YouTube, you will see Charlotte lying on the grass on the island. Ha! Great minds think alike! No hot tornado though.
And if you watch their Looe and Polperro video ... you will see Charlotte sitting on that bench I told you about. Great minds, etc, etc.
Anyway ...
Wish me luck with my rough draft.
'Good luck, Mikey!'
Thanks, Voice.
ENDS
ENDS
ENDS
Poetry Update 5th October 2024 -
I'll just dump this here -
There’s Nothing
To be myself I need to fight,
Who wants the burden of being right?
I see The World with perfect sight,
There’s nothing fooling me—
However ...
It’s a spinning khazi in endless space,
Sullied by the human race,
And God won’t show His righteous face,
There’s nothing impressing me.
* * *
Danger zone! Danger zone!
A nightmare’s cutting to the bone,
No magic fix, or helpers known,
There’s nothing backing me.
A vicious demon’s got me down,
I’m half-alive in a dreary town,
My prospects make me want to frown,
There’s nothing delighting me.
The price I pay for staying sane,
The price I pay for storing pain,
I curse and curse at ... love in vain,
There’s nothing tempting me.
The thoughts that come with fierce eyes,
The thoughts that come with stifled cries,
I wonder if I’ll ever rise,
There’s nothing lifting me.
It’s quite a thing to have a fear,
A winner can die in a fruitful year,
I only wish the path were clear,
There’s nothing guiding me.
It’s quite a thing to kill a fear,
A loser can die in a barren year,
I know that life is very dear—
However ...
There’s nothing holding me.
I'm not using this poem any more, or Gone, or On the Island. From now on, I'm only writing free verse and blank verse.
I've written and scrapped so many poems, so I only have seven. That's all right. At least I have a plan, man. 'You're the man with the plan, Mikey.' Yes, Voice.
Laters.
