Forgetting a poem that formed itself

 Came across this poem today that I'd forgotten I'd written...don't know how long ago. 

Forgetting a poem that formed itself

Perfectly in the night is like a moth

caught in a spiderweb long abandoned: the

moth’s life wasted; the spider unperceiving

of its acquisition and unaware its

rare and sapid meal remains neglected.

 

All the moth’s failed effort to stay alive,

all the struggle and strive, the fervid flutter,

the death disregarded by fellow moths, the

transfixing on a toilet window that never sees the

cleaner’s cleaning, all speak fervently of the

loss of a poem formed perfectly in the night.

6th Batch of Quordle Poems

   An explanation of Quordle poems is here.

Update: all my Quordle Poems, along with some hundreds of others, can now be found the Daily Quordle Poem website.

27.7.22 (Both these appeared that day as a kind of 'reverse approach)

The meal was of immense VALUE,
but one look at the DEBIT
card made me feel LOUSY.
My wife, in her generous way, called me an inGRATE!

GRATE my bones and gnash my teeth,
DEBIT my flesh and graze my skin.
LOUSY with pain and an occasional flea, I
VALUE my life still, ‘spite a sword wound from kin.           

28.7.22

FRANK, me old mate, the blacksmith working at the
FORGE, isn’t much of an artisan; truth to tell he’s a bit of a
PLANK, but boy, can he make a beast of a bonny
SALSA!          

31.7.22

REVUE begins; instant garbage
SLUSH from the comedian’s mouth
REPELs this audience member. I
YIELD my ticket and go home. 

1.8.22

CHOCK full of the mind-searing joys of
OPIUM, I raise up what’s left of my brain and
CYNICally ravage the savage
HORDE of naysayers. 

2.8.22

BROWN-minded from despair, and all those
WOKE-Nigglers who say how much they care; O-
VARY the tune a little, Wokes, let me play happily just for once in a
FIELD where privilege and offence aren’t niggling at the rest of us folks!  

3.8.22

CLOUD meanders over the sunshot field; good
REHAB for a man of my years and modest wisdom;
WHINE away – yes, I do – along with the bee and
THORN bird, impaled as he or I might be, in the heart. 

This was accompanied the following painting by Leopold Graf Von Kalckreuth:

5th Batch of Quordle Poems

  An explanation of Quordle poems is here.

Update: all my Quordle Poems, along with some hundreds of others, can now be found the Daily Quordle Poem website.

19.7.22

GOING back home to my weak and wonky
HOVEL where the windows are weak-minded, and the door
HINGE, the one at the bottom and not at the top, has a
QUIRK that makes a rough and whinging scuff along the floor.  

21.7.22

GUAVA
FUDGE; now I’ve heard everything. My brain
BEGINs to ignite, over-idle, rev up and 
MOTOR

22.7.22

ASHEN burns on ancient brown ash-
TRAYS. Nicotine stains on fingers.
BUGLE warning, hide the stash! Something’s
AMISS! It’s that smoky reek than lingers!

(Thanks, Rupert Brooke, for the last three words - they appear in his poem The Great Lover)

TRAYS was actually the wrong word; I'd picked it up somehow instead of TRAIT. 

25.7.22

NINJA receives the Sceptic’s
AWARD for proving that the
OZONE layer isn’t
QUITE as holey as once proclaimed. 

26.7.22

CHUTE the messenger? Don’t.
SIEVE the messenger? Do.
ADAPT the messenger and take him into your family? You’d be
DITTY not to. 

[Courtesy of a poet still struggling with the intricacies of English pronunciation.]

The correct 'translation' - which also appeared as a tweet - was:

SHOOT the messenger? Don’t.
SAVE the messenger? Do.
ADOPT the messenger and take him into your family? You’d be
DOTTY not to. 

I love the way you can play around with Quordle poems, and no one complains!

4th Batch of Quordle Poems

 An explanation of Quordle poems is here.

Update: all my Quordle Poems, along with some hundreds of others, can now be found the Daily Quordle Poem website.

8.7.22

PINKY on the left hand goes
NINJA, adds a note and makes a
SANER
CHORD. 

Gustave Caillebotte - ‘Man Playing the Piano’

9.7.22

LIPID ain’t limpid, like your limpid eyes, my dear.
TULIP ain’t two lips, though you have two, it’s clear.
MUCUS ain’t music, though your words are music to my ears. But…
SPADEs is trumps, so it’s clear, hear this in your ears, I win again, my dear.   

10.7.22

SLING,
MAYBE, the
CHILD over one shoulder, the
BANJO over the other…        

12.7.22

A
CANON, trendy, trying to ra-
P-RUDE-ly, was soundly censored by the
AMPLE, abundant, bounteous mind of the wisest member of the
DUCHY. 

13.7.22

SAVVY be, to do the work that
OTHER blokes may like to shirk;
RELAY this message to your mates, there’s no
QUIRK in doing a good day’s work.  

15.7.22

NYMPHs and shepherds come away,
OVOID the forests, stay away,
FERAL wolves chase shepherds away,
SPECKs of dust blow nymphs away. 

18.7.22

[I missed a day, so made up for it by writing first one poem with one set of words, and the next with both sets of words from the two days.]

DINER emptied his plate in a
TRICE. ‘It was nice,’ he said. ‘But the only thing to
SULLY my pleasure is offering an
INGOT and getting no change on it.’ 

DINER, perusing the racing guide, at LUNCH, in a
TRICE, changes his mind re the HORSE, whose
STYLE is in a state of SULLY after
COYLY losing not just the bettor’s shirt but his INGOT.

3rd Batch of Quordle Poems

An explanation of Quordle poems is here.

Update: all my Quordle Poems, along with some hundreds of others, can now be found the Daily Quordle Poem website.

1.7.22

The
TOCSIN rings its heraldic
TONIC, beginning of the new jazz
SUITE, a piece that quickly has our fingers
CLICKing, and toes ticking. 

2.7.22 Not quite a poem but an exercise in dialect.

ENDOW did you intend to
SULLY my
DYING father’s name,
UTILE me!

3.7.22

BASTE the ramen? The
RAMEN, don’t baste. The taste is
STAID and woody. That
WOODY taste is such a waste.    

5.7.22

SONAR from a swooping, silent
MIDGE sees a sure bet in my
FURRY skin, sets a scheme to
WRACK my sweet and simple, serene somnambulance.  

6.7.22

MANGY cat, by the spicy
SUMAC, pay your equal
TITHEs of nine lives, each a
REMIT of the sequel.      

 7.7.22  

HEARD my
NAVEL calling. It doesn’t do this often but sometimes as I
LABOR I hear it squirm and wriggle and writhe then
TAPER off.                                                                                            

2nd Batch of Quordle Poems

The first batch of Quordle poems, and an explanation, is here

Update: all my Quordle Poems, along with some hundreds of others, can now be found the Daily Quordle Poem website.

24.6.22

THRUM I in a kind of hum,
CHASE away the sounds of drum,
CROWD turns pale to hear the
CONCH which brings to surface all their fear. 

26.6.22

RATTY twists among the cargo,
TWICE twists and thrice turns,
CARGO free for such as Ratty;
TWISTs twixt holds, bows and sterns.   

28.6.22

LUCID,
MAGMA is not; a blazing red and orange shimmering force
SLIMEs its way towards us while someone screams on the
AUDIO.                                                                

After some commenting back and forth about the style of the Quordle poem above, Chris Hutchinson @CAHutch1990 wrote: 

Sublime
was the inclusio
of Mike's chiastic
bookends

 sublime, inclusio and chiastic had all come up in the tweets.        

And David Wright @ohthatwright wrote: 

It was mirror symetric, [sic]
As was also the metric.       

29.6.22

CHIEF, new, female, comes in with a
SWIRL; the assembled staff say
SHUSH to each other, each one trying to
OUTDO each other in shushiness.              29.6.22

First batch of Quordle poems

 Quordle Poems 1

A sample of the poems published on Twitter under the DailyQuordlePoem hashtag. 

The format is as follows, but sometimes I experiment with it:

Write poems of 4 lines, in 1 tweet. Lines start with the words from yesterday's Quordle. Tag with #DailyQuordlePoem. Curated: @ohthatwright  Created: @mKyleEdwards

Update: all my Quordle Poems, along with some hundreds of others, can now be found the Daily Quordle Poem website.

In the first few I was just finding my feet...

11.6.22

RAJAH, with care, opens the jar;
COBRA pokes his head out, just so far;
PIXIE sets the snake to bite the mare’s
SHANK, which raises all the rajah’s fears.  

12.6.22

AN ODE I wrote but yesterday,
BEGAN to recite by
AUDIO, but young May cried!
CHASM opened in my way.  

 14.6.22

‘DRAFT, there’s a draft! Close the door!’
‘LEANT on it, sure I did. Blew open once more.’
‘A(h), ZURE, that’s what ya always swore.
ARRAY wif ya! I’ll see ya no more.’    

15.6.22

SWOON, you soft and sweet and
SALTY moon, you’re in a splendour
PHASE and soon your tender
MANIA is strewn in another land.  

20.6.22

METAL, the Meccano was; metal
MODEL in Meccano led to panic;
PANIC of a clueless parent; by
A GATE, made A GETA-way.  

22.6.22

BURST a hole in the
LINEN beanbag; as a result the
TRAIN of itty bitty beans
SWEEP up I now have to. 

With thanks to Yoda, who’s always helpful in a metric jam.  

The next batch of Quordle poems is here

Who is Celia, as opposed to Who is Sylvia (well, who is Sylvia anyway?)

Who is Celia, what is she,
That all the blokes commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
Though it pays not to offend her! –
Yet she still will much admired be,
Even when someone she loves drives her up the wall, which some might think – though they’d be wrong - happens frequently.

Is she kind as she is fair?
Of course she’s full of kindness!
All the house she does repair
And overlooks the blindness
Of others who inhabit there,
And when it comes to tools that are too tricky to work out she politely ignores their lack of flair.

Then to Celia let us sing,
Our Celia all excelling:
Yup, she excels each living thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling.
But don’t to her your garlands bring
Because she doesn’t like you to buy flowers, preferring ones that come out of the garden, free, and all sweet-smelling.

 

2019

When we make love

 When we make love
oxygen flies from the room ˗
we’re left gasping for breath. 

When we make love
sheets and blankets twist and writhe -
agonies of torment. 

When we make love
a strange menagerie surrounds the walls
making un-animal trumpets and moans. 

When we make love
our eyes see nothing
not even the ridiculous. 

When we make love
the night is as bright as the day
darkness and light are alike to us. 

When we make love
bodies, limbs, digits entangle -
we become one flesh.

2014

 

 

Celia is the sky

Celia is the sky; I am the earth.
Celia is the sky and she is worth
all the wide sky’s breadth in glittering gold,
and I, if I may be so bold,
am just a little glitter, gutter-
picked by her bright heavenly eye:
since I, as I have precedently told,
I am the earth; and Celia is the sky.

Written for my wife's birthday, 2nd April 2012