Odd and a poem, with a little light j.Johnson Smith

Poem                                                                   28/7/15
A poet said to me  ‘the way to write, is to bring to light the germ of the idea
using adjectives and verb to round the poem out
but then to seer, excise, wipe-out the non-
essential words to leave a core of substance
on which the reader weaves their heart round yours’.

Now, you can guess.
A bull-head,
Old in tooth and claw.
Almost ravaged, ghostly maw.

Odd
It was a Bird’s sigh.  Few,
I thought me herded the wynd
But I was wrung and we clapped eyes
On the belles that parodied on the sea font
With church of the aisles high behind skies
Like a cigarette, blackly stippled in blue beyond.

From the story balcony like grey fenced greats
You could hang and leer at the satirised dresses
And open cups below.  As whines flow in a stream,
Grapes bobbing over broken black and white creases,
Through holes draped over the steppes, late,
To emerge, droll over glistening crystal.

Gambling on whether, dry or knot,
Gambolling on sheers, brushing high ears.
Walking like ants in a purple haze.  And the wind
Curling the rain and slipping the sheets of the boots
Wading on metal water to metre or not.
Glistening as the wind hits drums, wavering giants.

Pounding down stares, past satyrs,
Broken as looking glass giving years
And the sun steeples across lost tracks.
Through wrack, twinned feet, fore feet hounding across.
The steppes, the sand-paper lawn littered with tan-bleached forms
And origami stilted hats.

The gulls creaked as they flew overhead spilling their craw
And the bells rang from the cliff-high steeple.
From its doors crawled the people edging the sheep-strewn lawns.
And below, the sea-view villas, and below the sea-salt road
And below the balmy beach.
And below; the empty strands.

30/07/15

A little light
‘Raise the light, sonny, I can’t see your face no more’
The dark was crowding in, cold fingers round the door
So I gently, gently lifted the flickering charcoaled wick
Toward the stricken face of the man, so sick.

‘I am done-for, killed, but slowly-slew’
He hoarsely spoke and wagged a finger to closer come,
To listen and to linger.
‘Don’t be ‘fright my lad, I’m just a candle going out.   Boo!’

02/08/15

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About poetryparc2

Here goes: I write a bit of poetry, sometimes about poetry I find and ditto any sort of books I take a fancy to. I seem to have a preference for seeing the changes from the late Victorian period through to the 1930's, maybe 50's. But, and a big but, could carry that right up to current poetry/performance poetry. Though sometimes my grounding for 'imagist and Nature' might unnerve me for too much too modern. However, I do like to range widely over all 'historical' poetry, and fiction, any and all periods. I also like finding (if only for me) regional or partly forgotten poems and poets. Maybe all this is too eclectic to have a themed 'Blog' but so be it....... I also enjoy writing bits of fiction that might add up to a small mole-hill one day. Plus reviewing of new or old books that are relevant to my enthusiasms of Crime fiction, the Arts, Natural History and Special Education. This is on 'wordparc'. I try to record honestly what I think but if something is too bad (to my mind, others may love it!!) then I will not 'blog' it There, what's that if not seemingly random!
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