MoP 18: First they came...

Today's poem comes to you in honour of most of my favourite sites being blacked out at the moment.

First they came

with apologies to Martin Neimoller

First they came for Wikipedia

But I didn't speak up because I'm not a Wikipedian

Then they came for Reddit

But I didn't speak up because I don't use Reddit

Then they came for Wordpress

But I didn't speak up because I use Blogger

Then they came for the Cheezburger network

But I didn't speak up because that would involve writing a misspelled caption for a photo of a cat

Then they came for Regretsy and Cakewrecks

and I wrote a poem.

MoP 14: The nonsense sonnet

I've let the month of poetry slip for a few days - I was busy at work, then I was tired, then I'd got into a habit of not doing it and thought another day wouldn't hurt...

Now, however, I am back, and I'm going to attempt to tackle something I never got around to last year. A sonnet.

Sonnets are serious business. They have very strict format requirements, and also a long and illustrious history of being written by the masters, so I feel like if I make a balls of it it's a much bigger deal than sneezing out a dodgy haiku.

There are a few different formats to choose from, but here's Wikipedia's explanation of the English sonnet (as Shakespeare wrote), partially for interest's sake, and partially because that's the one I've chosen and I need to remind myself how it goes...

"A Shakespearean, or English, sonnet consists of 14 lines, each line containing ten syllables and written in iambic pentameter, in which a pattern of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable is repeated five times. The rhyme scheme in a Shakespearean sonnet is a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g; the last two lines are a rhyming couplet."

Right. Well, abab I've done plenty of times before, and how hard can a couplet be? The five beats per line thing is a bit tricky, since a diet of pop songs and bush ballads have ingrained four beats per line into our heads for most of our lives.

Kat Apel, co-ordinator of the Month of Poetry turnout, has been turning her hand to sonnets this year and although I think it's developing magnificently her plaintive sonnet-related tweets suggest it hasn't come without a fight.

I've decided to make life a bit easier by foregoing the whole coherence part of the poem, and just concentrating on getting the rhythm and rhyme pattern right. It's a big ask to worry about plot and theme while you still have to check your notes every two minutes to remind yourself how the format works...

So, without further ado:

The Nonsense Sonnet

I went down to the creek in heels today

To see what kind of library they had.

I saw a shark as I went on my way,

and that's when I knew things were really bad.

My camera's old and has a lot of rust

The shark was shiny, new and very green

and he did swim so nicely in the dust

He had the nicest curls I'd ever seen.

This poem goes on for longer than I thought

so long in fact the shark has swam away

and taken all the sausages I bought

that I was saving for a special day.

I never did get to the creek it seems,

But poems? My dear I've written reams and reams.

MoP 8: A clutter of thoughts

Today's poem is a verbal defrag. It's not very pretty and doesn't make a lot of sense if you don't hang out in my head. Sorry about that.

The sink is dirty.

The laundry needs folding.

My laptop is randomly BSODing.

There are claw-holes in the screen door.

The cats aren't eating. Why aren't the cats eating?

Does anyone ever actually sell anything on Madeit?

I cut out a dress a week ago, but haven't sewn it yet.

The dishwasher's taking up too much space, but I can't sell it.

Someone bought something off me for 99 cents on Ebay and won't pay.

The bottle of juice won't fit in the fridge now that I've put the milk away.

At least I've blocked Youtube so I can't blow any more data watching ponies.

Is this misprinted CD that says I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue but is actually Hancock's Half Hour rare and valuable, or just a piece of crap?

Am I lazy?

Am I taking on too much?

Should I be more organised?

Or is this level of chaos normal?

MoP 7: Slippery things

Eels

and snakes

and slowcoach snails

and other

slippery things with tails

Oil

and sand

and slimy goo

powder,

dust, and jelly too

These

are things

that slip away

like every

tick of every day

Spring

Summer

a sunny day

a puppy,

or a child at play

Your

twenties

your teenage years

squandered on

wasted time and fears

Gone

before

you know it

just one chance

so don't you blow it.

Put

away

your phones and screens

and grasp

for all those slippery things.

MoP 6: Haiku

Thanks to a bloody-minded computer eating a very, very long article I was writing for work, I'm well behind schedule today.

So, in place of the usual doggerel, here's a haiku for your reading pleasure.

Except.... haiku are supposed to be about a moment of time with a focus on nature. This one's more a moment in time with a focus on K-Mart. Sorry about that.

Sparkly plastic things

Endless rows of samey pink

Toy aisles make me sick.

MoP 5: When I Was Young

Free verse (AKA 'not really poetry') today - I have an idea I want to exorcise, but don't have time to turn it into a proper rhyming rhythm-having poem. So here it is as a slab of oddly phrased prose with line breaks in random places:

When I Was Young

When I was young

I had a rag doll called Jemima

I loved her like a sister

took her everywhere

When I was young

I had a blue My Little Pony

I really wanted a pink one

but loved her anyway

When I was young

I didn't have a lot of friends

But it didn't really matter

I had my things

When I was older

I moved out of home

and left my beloved things

under the bed

The box was shifted

forgotten

ignored

tripped over

dragged out

ignited

ashes

gone.

Now I am older

I have more friends, but not many

but I don't fill the gaps

with my things.

MoP 4: The love of a cat

I have two cats, a senior citizen called Brando and a juvenile delinquent named Fry. I love them both to bits, and since I can't get away with making every single poem a whinge about not having time to write poems, I thought today's effort could be an ode to their loveliness:

The love of a cat

He sits on the top step every morning

waiting for me to open the door

purrs as he creaks down six green steps

and grunts as he hits the concrete floor.

He rubs and loves and purrs aplenty

as I fumble sleepily with his bowl

He breakfasts like a starving beast

then gazes up with eyes of gold.

He isn't always a perfect housemate

there are accidents, hisses and growls

He only eats the expensive brand

and there's soft black hair on all my towels.

But I wouldn't swap him for a fortune

for all the wonders under the sun

I wouldn't swap him for a baby

Because with him, I already have one.

MoP 3: quick and dirty

There was a young lady from Bluff

who Ebayed some mirrors and stuff

but if you have a good look

at the photos she took

you can see that she works in the buff.

MoP Day 2: Procrastination

Yeep, it's another frantic late night doggerel writing session from Artsie HQ.

This is something I really need to work on this year. Procrastination. Time management. I've really done very little today - did a little mending and cut out a dress, not exactly a full day's productive labour - yet somehow the whole day's gone by and I'm throwing this together at bedtime.

It's ridiculous, because I do genuinely enjoy writing and have been looking forward to the month of poetry. So why am I treating this like some sort of nasty chore to put off?

Partially, because it involves using my brain, and it's much easier to just flake out in front of a screen and not have to think so hard.

Also, because unpleasant inner truths have a horrible habit of bubbling up when I write poetry, things I'm not ready to face yet. Or just don't want to face - because it involves thinking!

Haven't got time

Dirty dishes in the kitchen

grotty teabags in the sink

a pile of unread papers

and I just don't want to think.

There's dust on my guitar

and my novel is unwritten

and I need to fix a broken chair

but these thoughts swill back unbidden.

I'm so sick of being useless,

Always struggling, always late

never up to standard

feeling like I've let down fate

Like I could have been so awesome

but no potential's realised

because the pressure to be perfect

has left my paralysed

I'd rather just do nothing

than try, and get it wrong

it's why I never worked with oils,

wrote a book, composed a song.

If another person wrote this

I'd tell them just to let it be,

to have fun and not to worry....

but it's different when it's me.

Month of Poetry: This Year

The Month of Poetry is on again. Like last year, it's sneaked up on me - why do they put January 1 so close to December 31? - but here I am, posting my first poem for the month with minutes to spare.

In the time I should have been writing this, I've cleaned out my inbox, done an irrelevant Creative Commons image search, written a post for my other blog, and demolished two cups of tea and a packet of chocolate biscuits.

So I'd better crack on, hadn't I?

This year

This year I pledge

to do more good than harm

to be productive

not destructive

to be alert, yet calm.

This year I pledge

to take good care of me

coz I can't cover

the care of others

if I'm not as fit as can be.

This year I pledge

to sort my money out

right now it's a mess

I'm living on less

and this has to be fixed, no doubt!

This year I pledge

to let my child-self play

to draw and strum

dream in the sun

and to live fully every day.