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

40th Anniversary Poem

 

Three-quarters of the bed belongs to you, and
three-quarters of the bed belongs to me, so
there must naturally be some overlap, some
point in which we occupy the same space. 

This place can either be a place of contention, or
a breathing space together, a face-to-face space.
It can be a place for melting together, or invasion,
a place for a game of space invaders, or a place where 

each in each is buried alive but breathes, not
suffocating, but finding a new way to breathe
in each other. Or it can be a place of trespass, as in
you’re sleeping in my space, you’re squashing my

life out of me, you’re removing my room, you’re
crowding me out. Three-quarters of the bed belongs to
each? Not true. All of the bed belongs to each, and
each beaches in each other, and reaches harbour.

2014 

In Memoriam: Helen Vicary Mann

My self-proclaimed ‘most favourite customer,’
constant supporter of OC Books.

As one who knew you best through your passion for books,
I find the list of your other passions intriguing:
wine, chocolate, Pilates, makeovers, opera, French perfume. 

And how did I never hear about Malawi,
the Mothers Union, amoebic dysentery,
the construction of pit privies,
the expertise on flute and piano? 

I heard all about Celtic Christianity –
you may have been first to bring it
to my attention. And Lampeter, a place in
Wales that might have been on the moon. 

Then there was Pelagius, whom you
considered much underrated in the
sainthood department; we may have debated it.
You had no time for his bête noire, Augustine.
When a young student used the word Pelagian
in one of his doctoral essays, you bristled:
he’d leaned towards the concept that
Pelagius was a heretic – the very idea! 

And, of course, having been the first woman priest
to be ordained, by the first woman bishop
not only in New Zealand, but also in the world,
you bristled at the notion of women as
lesser creatures, a thought that flitted – then fled - across the minds
of those male priests who regarded women priests –
let alone women bishops – as somehow opposed to nature,
opposed to God Himself. Sorry, Herself. 

Is there some irony in the fact that your middle name was
Vicary, you vicar at Holy Cross, at Palmerston, at Hampden?
Was it your small stature that made you more aware of those
creatures who attended your Cathedral-based Pet Services,
barking heart-stopping barks, or flittering in cages,
on hands, searching perhaps for St Francis?
The line in your obituary, she always had an eye for the
underdog, says maybe more than the writer intended. 

The last time we saw you, blown by a breeze in
King Edward St, wanting to chat (as always),
the yellow tinge in your skin, your
Trinitarian cancer alive and well,
dragging you step after step towards death,
we ached at the change.   

Helene,

may the saints and angels enliven your steps in the life beyond;
may the dogs who preceded you revel anew in your presence;
may you find Pelagius and Augustine at peace;
may you accompany on your flute wild Celtic songs sung by
wild Celtic saints, the fingers that once gained you a place in a
Norwegian orchestra flexing anew as they race beyond mere
human agility.

 

 

4.6.12

I was manager of the Christian bookshop, OC Books; Helene (pronounced Helen) was one of its most supportive customers. 

Lampeter is a town in Wales. 

Blackbird - I think

 

For years I was convinced it was a blackbird.
Now someone assures me it's a thrush.
Oh, what the heck, blackbird or thrush,
this bird sings like no other, no thrush or
blackbird known on earth, his song is
unique, spontaneous, jazz, a riff - or
several dozen of them - or a
street magician’s magic, a
pack of cards pitched through the
air, purloined again.

Of course, now that I start to write
about him, he stops. Only half a dozen
sparrows continue their diminutive
plainsong sans harmony, sans melody,
barely rhythmic. They wait for the master
musician-thrush-or-blackbird that God
invested with this extraordinary
ability to never muck the music up.

For a few seconds he starts up again,
but aware I’m writing about him, he
feels exposed, naked on his branched perch,
and stops. Goes home for tea perhaps.

 

Flitting past, a rustic sparrow
picks at a crumb or worm and
paraphrases Billy Collins at me:
Mostly poetry fills you with the
urge to write poetry. ‘Put Billy aside,’
he chirps, ‘and let the bird sing, unaccompanied by
your pitiful attempts to describe the song of a
avian whose name you can’t even decide on.’

Knowing what we're getting

 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Well, I ask myself, why not?
The difficulty will be making sure that the
summer’s day is not atypical and therefore an
inordinately awkward day with which to compare
thee.

Thou hast to be compared to something that is
not so overheated we would all prefer to
stay inside, drinking endless cups of tea,
ignoring the weather, avoiding nasty sunburns and
melanomas.

Nor would I be keen to compare thee to
a day starting light and shiny then steadily
clouding over, hinting at rain in the late
afternoon. Such a day has a sense of not
boding well for the evening, leaving a
feeling of if only. 

If only I compared thee to the perfect summer’s day,
thou would be satisfied and not at all out of sorts
because of the possibilities of being compared to a
day that turns up on the weather reports as having
been less than satisfactory.

Regrettably, summer days are like any other days –
at least in our part of the world; moody, sulky,
telling lies about themselves, leaning to pretence,
opening dull and heating up, or hiding blue skies
well and truly behind a cover of cloud. 

If I compared thee to a winter’s day, then we
might all know what we were getting:
often more than a little cool, occasionally frosty,
once in a while snow-covered, iced-over,
likely to send you toppling if you step
incorrectly, bleak for a week, a
time to stay indoors and sit by the fire...

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Wrapped up warm, gloves, hats, scarves,
layer on layer over thermal underwear,
bed-snuggled beneath a bevy of
blankets, hot-toddied, feet
hot-water bottled, wheat-bagged,
wrapped round each other, legs, arms, independent parts...

Give me thee in winter more than summer.

Moth

 

I’ve seen a moth near-drowning
slide across a hot bath, flicker
up and off the surface, onto walls
and ceiling quicker
than my eyes can follow,
seen it smash into the light-bulb,
flash into a mirror, speed from
wall to wall in frenzy, like a
dervish all a-shimmer, settle down
into a corner, flutter briefly,
catch its breath and in a moment
dive its suicidal path towards the
bath and start all over.

Dog

 

Without me, Boss would be at a loss.
I dob in robbers bobbing their heads over the fence.
I stop plotters lobbing bombs on the grass.
Fob me not off, ignore my woof not!
I bark and blot out the wobbling hand,
The desire to mollycoddle – I’m a dog,
For God’s sake! I have no problems
With collywobbles but give me strong,
Solid assurance I’ve done a good job.
Double ‘good dog, good dog’ for my
Trouble. I have no foibles needing
Avoiding, nor rubble in the bowels
Of my cranium needing psychology:
I’m biologically
Dog. 

Aquajogging

Togging up to go
aquajogging.

Slogging,
dead horse flogging,
the laps doggedly
logging,
the mind fogging -
or thinking about
blogging.

Aquajogging is at the
opposite extreme to
tobogganing.

Gossiping women
hogging the centre lane.

For couples,
aquajogging
is a sloshing
form of snogging.

Inanimate, inarticulate

 

The fridge door always shuts
before I replace the milk on its shelf.
The door of the microwave
subtly closes as I put in the pie
that needs reheating.
Ditto the oven door; it hates
staying open; prefers slamming shut
when I have a tray of biscuits
ready to go inside, and they
delight in sliding floorwards. 

The toast in the toaster pops up
while I’m cleaning my teeth,
and goes cold;
the jug boils and cools again
while I’m doing something
urgent in another room. 

A slurp of coffee always skulks
unnoticed while I write, read,
eat my lunch, then when
unthinking-lifted slops
on bench, table, computer. 

The radio ignores my
first attempt to switch it on then
breaks my eardrums when, on the
second push of its button, it
decides to blast its fullest
all percussion brass and
shrieking piccolo chord out into
an unsuspecting sitting room.

Of course
the bath will never overflow from
pouring taps forgot;
the gas will always go 
on the first push of the switch -
it would never think of
blowing the house up;
the heater left on
at bedtime will not, of course,
make us wake at 2 am and think
the house is now about to burst into flames. 

Inanimate, inarticulate, the
things that live around us
can’t be suspected of
desiring anything but our best. 

Our attitude is the problem:
walk faster between the bench and the fridge,
slip the plate or tray into the microwave
or the oven, at speed;
don’t clean your teeth,
don’t go to another room;
fake a creepy Uriah Heep
humility, avoid a hint of
insincerity or
sycophantic slighting or
hypocritical wickedness.   

Trust the voiceless,
those without breath,
those without consciousness,
those without any capacity to
intend bedevilment.

At Fortrose

In the morning a resident came onto the domain
with his Shetland pony and its fortnight-old foal –
all frisk, investigation,
chewing my knuckles. 

In the evening we did the cliché
beach stroll, clambered over rocks,
watched the lazy river and the
lackadaisical sea slide
dance-wise in and through each other. 

The sun, slowing down for the day,
slid satisfyingly into the sea,
siphoning long soft rays through 
clouds. Cliché, cliché. But clichés,
even clichés, disrupt the heart.

From 1993

Fortrose is a locality on the southernmost coast of the South Island of New Zealand. It's within the area known as the Catlins. 

Photo courtesy of Trip Advisor

Why do they make us cry?

Fine. Why do they make us cry?

Why is someone dying like a
paper tissue blowing, or a sigh,
or a garden with trees from a
neighbour’s garden overflowing,
or the trees themselves in a
childhood garden, or the sky
which can’t be understood from
where I stand, or an adult hand,
or the shortness of my breath,
or the shortness of my breadth
of understanding compared to
those who’ve woven round this
planet longer.. 

No, no children’s
gardens; no, no chunky
puppies, no thorn-sting roses,
no, not the voice of someone
I’ve never met calling out to me,
calling, asking,
What the heck are you saying? 

As well he might. 

None of these. 

Why do I lie and lie? One
spoken, the other prone on a bed
woken from some dream full of
dread where my lies will finally be
seen as the token of who I really am.
None of these. By the by I don’t know
why I repeat None of these. I’m not
implying some deep truth-telling,
secret-selling – my secrets are all
dry, or drying, hung high on wire,
pegged there for all to see. See? My
secrets are not secret: they share
common humanity with Thee and me. 

Fine. Why do they make us cry?