Poems to Keep Me Sane

[James]

I think with poetry, I really want brevity. Because I think:

I have yet to google,
"why won't my book recharge?"

... is probably better on its own than the poem in full.

[James]

Oh, Cincinnatus,
What would you think?
If you were to witness,
Orientation Week.

Upon a closer inspection,
Virgil would surely damn
this new breed of
gentemque togatam.

Alas, no longer is it said;
cedant arma togae,
but rather it’s a clarion call
for young, boozy bodies to sway.

[James]

I saw an ant today,
he looked like an industrious little fellow.
Vainly trying to carry a crisp cumb
through the cracks in the pavement.
I gently took the cumb
and placed it on other side of the stretching ravine.
The ant ran in circles and panicked,
not understanding random acts of kindness.
Until he found his crisp and with rejoicing,
once more carried on his journey.

I felt sad
when the woman stood on him.

[James]

Last night,
I had such a lovely dream.

I dreamt I was in Broadstairs,
we got ice cream at Morelli’s
and it was just as I remembered.
We wandered down the long, thin main road:
there was the bakery that sold
the finest gingerbread men in all the world,
and the antique bookstore
where I bought my first ever Sherlock Holmes book.

I wonder if they’re still there today.

Overhead, Bleak House watched the little town,
and the ghost of Dickens was not amused
for it began to rain.
We rushed down the road and along the pier,
the water raging and turning,
smashing against the side,
rising up over cars like it did in days of old.

We hid beneath
the roof of that silly building,
which I never knew what was for,
just sitting on the pier.
It didn’t sell fish and chips anymore.

I wonder if that’s true.

The rain fell harder
and the waves grew angrier,
it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

I stepped away from my cover
and stood at the railings,
a voice screaming for me to stand back.
I watched the sea boil in anger,
the sand disappearing behind a rain of mist.
My eyes turned to the little town
that stood steadfast against the oncoming storm,
and then to Bleak House, a mere shadow atop the hill.

I didn’t noticed the wave
come over the railing
nor feel its icy grip take me,
until I tumbled over the side…

… and woke up.

I wasn’t in Broadstairs
anymore.

I was in Hamilton.

Fuck.

[James]

<removed>

[Kaez]

Apr 24, 2013 6:47:20 GMT -5 James said:

at the age of two and a half
i was given a bike
by an overzealous relative
who didn't approve
of health and safety.

the leftist thought police
wasn't going to stop
her little boy
from experiencing the joys
of a leftist health system.

you never forget how
to ride a bike,
but the memories of
that faithful day
are as foggy as
the english channel.



it was very shiny,
the bicycle,
not the friday,
and also, sadly,
several sizes too big.

i didn't ride it once.
because i had recently learnt
the ability to run.

instead i found a bike in our shed
rusting and falling to pieces
and insisted, if not demanded,
that the iron wheel
was for turning
and that my father and i
would fix it.

we didn't,
but that's beside the point.

I really, really enjoyed this poem. I -slightly- changed the line divisions because just a few of them felt off to me, personally, but overall really liked those as well.

EDIT: Bolded for clarification, also added periods consistently.

[James]

Cheers, Kaez! I agree with all of those changes.

And I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[James]

you hold an umbrella,
like an aristocrat.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

May 15, 2013 5:59:34 GMT -5 James said:

you hold an umbrella,
like an aristocrat.

I liked this. It's simple but thought provoking. I wondered who it was holding the umbrella and what they do and if they are an aristocrat. I thought of Dr Who as well You'd be good at doing Flash, me thinks. Pity it isn't something you'd enjoy.

[James]

Sow

All shoulders are burdened
with the heavy straps of time

Do not slump, as if carrying
some rock ladened sack

Wear those burdens
like the most magnificent mantle

The fabric weaved with
scars and joy, hope and despair

Gather new burdens
find them and hold them tight

Let the mantle grow
long and gorgeous into the night

Until people stop, pause

and stand in awe
of the story of your life

This thread is being resurrected just because I don't think this poem really matched the theme of 'watching'. Though, on that note, I'm writing a new poem for that thread at the moment called 'Twinned with Amsterdam' which I think is kind of ambitious and trying something new.

... so if it ends up badly, I'll post it here.

[James]

For Harold Pinter

With a roll of his wrist,
the tiny, red dwarf
pitches outside off-stump.

The stitches that keep
the star from breaking apart,
grip and turn
on the dusty, cracked road.

Already, though,
as if the willow has slowly
turned to sturdier bone,
Hutton’s sword
has made its fatal flourish.

A flash of red,
a solitary, strangled shout
from out somewhere in the field,
and the ball is up, up,
returning to the stars.