April 25, 2008

Portfolio stuff

So here are some new poems I wrote over the holiday for my portfolio. One is just a sort of self-expurgation, the other two are investigative experiments into stylistic restriction, on the same lines as A MidSummer Night's Massacre.


The Pun 

The pun is unloved, and shunned,

And spun in webs, and freely flung,

Fried from gums in bottles lust and one,

Where reavers rum and common darn,

Firming into skirmishes unsung.

The wore of words anon, and, ear two lung,

A limb or to, linguistic atoms,

Become no Moor than flirting crumbs.

Sea how it is done, the old syllabic dissection maid Jung.

To witch did they belong, these peaces of a word unstrung?

The Thais that bind now stunned, a wondered land of fun

Re-leaving the humdrum with the mow juiced

And so begun, abandoned…

The Rhyme

The rhyme is alive, jumps from side to side,

Elusively gliding under the eyes and tickling the thighs,

Eliciting sighs from he who tries to scribe this butterfly’s jive:

Knowing how easily it dies, but striving to see how it flies,

And, once described, to help it survive, pressed inside his pages.


Here, both the full and the half rhyme thrive,

Safe from the genocide to which some would-be wordsmiths aspire,

Seeking the highs via the butchering of “I”s and “Thy”s,

Writhing sonnets mired in time which rightfully slide out of the public’s mind

Until they find themselves so dire, they expire on the spot.


Far from their funeral pure, the well-kept rhyme is admired,

Its plumage compiled entirely of its sire’s,

For though the combination’s inspired,

There’s nothing new for sale nor hire under the sun.


In its lifetime, the flyer’s course may change:

New sounds are acquired, as others fall away.

What was the mainstay yesterday is simply unseen today.

“But how the rhyme must strain to play such a game”,

They say, conveying an array of upsets to allay.

“It could not stay on the path whence it came, but,

No doubt kept at bay by some gale, gave way,

Braving unknown catastrophes with faltering grace,

Stretched, amazed at the pace with which it strays towards the malaise of clichés,

Abrasive dangers faced alone, destined to be disgraced and cast down

To await the same fate as the sonnets you slated before.”


“No dice”, I reply.

“Though what you decry sounds like a dire slide into the abyss,

This rhyme does not mind, but actually requires it:

It must not tire of the course, cannot stay on old lines.

If the signs of boredom arrive, then, under that same guise of easy freedom,

It must take to new skies, and from such change arise

Renewed and revived, and thus, safely arrived where it began,

Retire to the poet’s page, to be divinely imbibed.


Until such time as the winds change again…


How Bitter It Is To Dream 

I am acutely aware of the world today.
I woke up with dry lips, stretching for a mirror that wasn’t there.
How vivid dreaming is, how upsetting.
In that night, we, who have known each other well,
Were transported to a summer’s eve,
And there, among the grass
Which welcomed us as a lover’s arms,
We spoke one language with our words
And another with our eyes.
The first, though I remember well, meant little,
Until the second overwhelmed it, and took charge.
And in the moment you lowered your head to kiss me,
I raised mine into nothingness.
Pouting at a bare room, I sank,
Cheated yet again by dreams esemplastic,
And lay to contemplate the silence of my lonely world.

Today is a day of what could have beens.
Still in expectation of that kiss, my senses reach
Far beyond their remit – my clothes are soft, they say;
The floor is hard, they say; and the sun is strong.
These feelings, they are not your lips, and never will be.
For one so strong, I am easily affected -
I eat and feel full, but still am void,
Unable to appreciate the beauty of the world around me.
For the beauty I seek has faded.
Seven seconds have set me in stone,
A tired effigy of the unrequited,
Hollow for your touch, the succour of your lips
Which I never have and never will know.

- 3 comments by 1 or more people Not publicly viewable

  1. Sue

    I’m almost loathe to say that I think you’re a wonderful poet because I get the feeling you don’t want anyone to tell you that and I know people pretend to be people other than themselves around here but someone (or it may be plural, I don’t know) is very talented. I think it was Raquel Welch who said “A woman’s most erogenous zone is her mind.”

    26 Apr 2008, 09:47

  2. Why thank you, Sue. Trust me, I have no problems with people feeding my ego :D. I am never anything other than unremittingly myself – if only people were the same, eh?

    Was there a particular poem you enjoyed? Or a particular device? Was it the use of enjambement or interal rhyme that did it for you, or the self-fulfilling subversion of form or ridicule of the restrictions of poetry? Any literary feedback you can give me would be much appreciated, as it will help me in the redrafting process.

    Also, if you like my poems you may like my songs – http://www.myspace.com/jimmykentmusic and http://www.soundclick.com/jimmykent

    Thanks again

    26 Apr 2008, 09:53

  3. Sue

    I have a bad association with the name Jimmy which stems from the time I knew someone with that name. I went out with him for a while, he thought he was a hard case too but it’s the sort of thing it’s difficult to live with and it never impresses women anyway because they don’t like men who are too egotistical. I wasn’t going to mention it until I said to my partner this morning “Are you going to the gym?” and he said “No, I’m going to the James today, it’s posher.” It got me thinking about Jimmy and name association. I really disliked the name Gavin until I came into contact with Gavin Alexander and now if I had another child that is probably the name I would choose, assuming it was a boy, of course. Last night we were discussing adultery and my partner said “I don’t see the point, why mess about with a hamburger when you can have steak at home.” I thought what a lovely thing to say, it reminded me of the time about a month ago when he came home one Friday night after working away all week and I was lying on the settee like a couch poatato in old jeans and a tatty old tee shirt and he said “You look beautiful.” It made me realise how luckky I am.

    27 Apr 2008, 08:51

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