Tag Archives: Guest poem

night into early morn’

A poem I’d like to share with you, from Eliot Dybden:

along the interstice

duck in the pond behind the flat
pontificating to whatever audience he thinks he has
proclaiming his territory
or maybe he’s just saying hey

hey! hey! hey!
(pause)
hey!
(pause)
hey!

the acoustics are just right
so that sometimes i believe among the cattails
roams a talkative, minature moose

at first he was a leaky tap
the squeak of a ceiling fan
but now he is the consistency of being

resistance against the dark undertown
refusing to be stifled or quelled

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Guest Artist, Glenys Doull of New Zealand

A wonderful selection of poems from Glenys, otherwise known as ‘LifeCameos’ here on WordPress and a poet I always make time to read whenever she posts. Do visit and enjoy…..

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books

It is my privilege to introduce Glenys as part of our Guest Artist Series.  I believe she is an important poet of our times and for the people.  Unencumbered by the literary judgements of intellectuals, she is part of the movement to return poetry to the people–where it rightfully belongs.  I hope you take the time to enjoy her wonderful skill of imagery and verse.

These poems are used by permission and copyrighted by Glenys Doull.

Sweet Peas

Heavily scented warm
summer air draws in
buzzing bees eagerly
seeking precious nectar.

Sweet peas swarm up
netting on the old shed wall
a perfumed rainbow
tapestry of many hues.

Pale pastels to bright
reds, purples, pinks,
blues and lilacs paint a
masterpiece on old timbers.

Rich pickings for the
school children’s flower show.

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Topiary

A map in a foreign language is a misheard story.
The path broken by translation. The betrayal of truth
That slips in, knife-quick, between the fireside and the forgetting,
Stripping the stones of all but cautions to take care
As you step between the constructed cracks, the topiary-shaded grass,
Of gardens grown from the bones of unremembered past.

The paper creases with the the grim grip of disappointment,
Lines bend and meld together, new tracklines between
The dead-living things. And so, new stories begin.

Time has slid away from you here,
Paths well trodden and unseen through the depth of years,
Local tales sing little of your legacy,
The trail an ephemeral, skin-thin thing;
Your mounds made a mockery, mirrored in suburban topiary.

Penelope Foreman

 

From her blog ‘Suspicious Mounds’

Source: Archaeopoetry #3 – Topiary 

 

Legal Poetic Parody

I just found this tale of legal poetry, and wanted to share it with you.

Karen Lowe hit and damaged a tree in Michigan belonging to William Fisher. The tree was successfully repaired which cost Lowe’s insurer $550. However, Fisher was not satisfied and he claimed $15,000 of damages for the pain his “beautiful oak tree” suffered.

A trial court dismissed the case but an appeal was filed. Unfortunately for Fisher, the Court of Appeals of Michigan, composed of a three-judge panel, agreed with the lower court’s ruling in poetry!

We thought that we would never see
A suit to compensate a tree,

A suit whose claim in tort is prest
Upon a mangled tree’s behest;

A tree whose battered trunk was prest
Against a Chevy’s crumpled crest;

A tree that faces each new day
With bark and limb in disarray;

A tree that may forever bear
A lasting need for tender care.

Flora lovers though we three,
We must uphold the court’s decree.

Affirmed.

Source: Legal Poetic Parody

A song about nothing

Here’s a song about absolutely nothing:
It’s not about me,
Not about anyone else;
Not about love.
Not about being young,
Not about anything else either.

It came to me while I was asleep,
Riding along on my horse.
I don’t know exactly when I was born.
I’m not happy,
I’m not angry.
I’m not a stranger here…
I don’t belong here.

I can’t help being like this,
I was made like it by a fairy upon a mountaintop.
I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake
Unless someone tells me.
My heart’s almost broken,
It’s so sad…
And all this doesn’t matter a mouse to me.
I swear it, by St. Martial!

I love someone… I don’t know who she is
Because I’ve never seen her;
She hasn’t done anything to please me or to upset me
And I don’t care.
I’ve never seen her, but I love her truly.
She is not yet done what she should to me, or what she shouldn’t.
When I don’t see her, then I’m happy.
She’s not worth a cock to me
Because I know someone who’s gentler and prettier,
And richer as well…

I don’t know where she lives,
Whether up in the heights or down in the fields.
I daren’t tell you the wrongs she does me,
It hurts me too much
And it hurts me to stay here,
So I’m leaving!

I’ve made the poem. I don’t know what’s it about.
I’m going to send it to someone
Who’ll send it with someone else,
To someone over in Anjou:
Perhaps he’ll be able to send me the key from his little box
and unravel this riddle.

Guillaume IX, Duke of Aquitaine and VIIth Count of Poitiers
(22 October 1071 – 11 February 1127)

 

I recently wrote a poem about nothing, then realised what I had, in some form plagarised, although my poem is not as funny as this one.