| The Art of Poetry |
As well as being one of the most complex art forms, poetry is also one of the simplest.
You don’t need a master’s degree in literature from Oxford to write a poem. You don’t need to have spent half your life training. Poetry is instant art, which can come as a result of an incident or a feeling which surfaces and goes in seconds.
This is the paradox of poetry. Something which is timeless can be derived from something so fleeting. Something which sums up a lifetime of deep thinking, observation and experience can be produced in seconds and read in just as much time.
And that is the beauty of poetry. A poem written by a five-year-old can touch the heart of a ninety-five-year-old so deeply, that it can bring them to tears. Poetry can start wars, heal wounds, conquer hearts, break strong men and make lovers out of strangers.
That’s why we here at United Press are delighted to bring you this compilation of poetry, by a wide variety of poets with an equally wide variety of different styles. We hope you’ll revel in these pages and enjoy their Art of Poetry.
Lynda Brennan, Editor
HIS LUCY LOCKET
They told him they had laid her in the little room,
For the room was small and bare,
With just a feathered bed and an old wooden chair.
He didn’t mean to hurt her or make her cry,
That damn silly, silly lie,
She ran out into the night.
They found her in Pebble Lane,
Unconscious, lying in the pouring rain.
She looked so peaceful as she lay upon the feathered bed,
Her long auburn hair across the pillow spread,
To him she seemed to be in a deep, deep dream,
So far, far away.
He touched her cheek, he held her hand,
He took a gun from his pocket,
From this day on he would always be with his
Luce Locket.
Robert A Lane, Hornchurch, Essex
Born in London, Robert Lane has interests including writing and martial arts. “In 1960 a friend asked me if I could write a poem about animals for her ten-year-old daughter and it won a competition,” explained Robert. “I would describe my style as easy reading and I would like to be remembered as a nice fellow.” Robert works in transport and has an ambition to write a bestseller and have it made into a successful film. He is married to Janet and they have two daughters. “I have written many short stories and had a book published and also written over 300 poems, most of which have been published,” added Robert.
PICTURE ON THE WALL
There you hang all the while
Looking back at me with your simle.
Everlasting image held safely in glass
A constant reminder of a time gone past.
A moment once lived captured forever
A younger day of a youthful point in time
A memory of a precious moment of mine
A perpetual pose protected in its casing.
Cherished like the memory its portraying
Carefully cleaned constantly dusted
Always there waiting to be studied
Depicting an image that can never lie
Showing how quickly years roll on by.
An innocent face from a carefree day
If only we could all stay that way
An image captured lasting forever.
The memory now distant is fading
Unlike the picture that’s never changing.
Martine Gafney, London
THE BELLE OF THE BALL
You were the one and only who did personify
The beauty of heart, body and mind,
Instilled harmony as in a dance!
You were the one who touched the right chord,
Set our hearts to dance with delight!
You were the one who charmed away our sorrows,
Fondly let us look to an uncertain tomorrow
And get destiny on our side.
You were the one
Who did restore the rhythm and joy of our life
Made us feel we were at a fabulous ball,
Happy to dance away our woes,
Laugh and smile once more.
You were the one
And only belle who took the world to a dance,
Smitten it is still whirling around
To the music of your love and charm,
Wondering why you have gone,
And left all behind so young.
Lucy Carrington, London
Dedicated to HRH, Princess Diana.
TITAN
Of the music of Gustav Theodore Holst,
His suite The Planets is the work we hear most.
For Saturn, he composed some melodious tunes,
We’ve now landed a craft, on one of its moons.
We’re ever so clever, but we can’t live together,
So much bloodshed since the flood.
Strife within and between the nations,
We are rather poor at human relations.
We’re ever so clever, but we can’t live together,
So much bloodshed since the flood.
Geoffrey Martin, Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire
THE CIDER APPLE TREE
To walk into my garden now
Is a pleasure of the day
Its scarlet boxed geraniums
With white lobelia spray
Smother the battered terraces
In quite a striking way
And through a rainbow arch
Of the scented sweet-pea
That beguiles the butterfly
And the busy bumble bee
A whiff of a barbecue beckons
Down by the cider-apple tree
Sylvia Ede, Southampton, Hampshire
Born in Eastleigh, Sylvia Ede has interests including family history and playing the piano and keyboard. “I started writing in 1998 when I was trying to compose a piece of band music but wrote words which became my first published poem,” she explained. “My work is influenced by the beauty of nature and I would describe my style as phonetic. I would like to be remembered as someone who could paint a picture through words.” Sylvia works as a book-keeper and has an ambition to develop as a composer of music and poetry. She is married to Ernest and they have children Clifford and Stephen. “The person I would most like to meet is Andrew Lloyd Webber, so I could write lyrics for one of his pieces,” added Sylvia.
CAN
Can you see the other picture
The one you have in your mind
And avoid comment and stricture
And then be true, whilst being kind?
Can you think that, even maybe,
The other one’s view could be right,
While maintaining also to see
Some other doubting person’s plight?
Then you will be much better able
To share in the world that we have,
Not one based on hazy fable,
But the one that needs you to save;
Not that you are better, or clever,
Or smarter than the one you meet,
But because your neighbour ever,
Is the one who lives in your street.
Malcolm Crees, Haslemere, Surrey
WE ARE THE SEASONS
We are like the seasons,
The changing seasons,
always different,
Always changing,
Sometimes we are the summer,
Bright and warm, eager to rise,
And glowing with happiness and pride,
Other times we are the autumn,
Drooping, dying, falling apart,
To the ground like hard, crumbly brown leaves,
A cherry blossom without the show,
Some days we are the winter,
Cool, cold and impervious to others,
Sometimes we are the spring,
Reborn with love and hope,
Opening up like an elegant daffodil,
Tall and proud, changing,
New and excited,
Changing seasons,
We are like the seasons.
Della Perry, Kingswinford, West Midlands
Dedicated to Jack Rowley, my father, who knew the seasons well.
FLYING
As I wonder on heaven high,
Dreams from space, dreams from sky,
Sun as guardian in the light,
As the moon now shifts to take the night.
Reality, a dream, in present nigh,
While dreams grow wings for joyless flight,
Clouds concealed in sky low,
I rise to space without limit known.
Alexander Vrij, Harwich, Essex
THE STATUE
Samantha is a little girl
Made of cold hard stone,
She sits out in the garden
Getting weather worn.
Her upturned face, expressionless,
Looks up to the sky,
Towards the gulls and other birds
As they go sailing by.
Her hands, cupped and open,
Looked a little bare,
So I put a stone baby hedgehog there
She doesn’t look so lonely now
She has a friend to hold,
And in the rays of sunlight,
She doesn’t look so cold.
Patricia Palmer, Helston, Cornwall
HEART IN A CAGE
There will always be a part of me
That I keep locked away
Where my desires lay dormant
Just waiting for the day
When someone will awaken them
And set my heart aflame
But until then I’m waiting
And life goes on the same
Will I ever find that love
To free this inner rage
Or must I stay, alone and sad
My heart locked in a cage
Ann Potkins, Elstow, Bedfordshire
FABRICS OF LIFE
Baptized in Calico, pure, fine and innocent.
Educated in Cotton, fresh, crisp and attentive.
Teenaged in Denim, trendy, casual and lively.
Groomed in Tweed, smart, neat and sophisticated.
Admired in Silk, soft, glossy and alluring.
Desired in Satin, shiny, sexy and seductive.
Loved in Lace, sheer, frilly and yielding.
Aged in Wool, thick, fleecy and restful.
Margaret Maguire, Holmfirth, West Yorkshire
A STAR WARS BORN
Sci-fi rules in slumberland,
Waking hours, sometimes rather bland,
The interstellar capsule is the tool,
US Space Cadets going to school,
We pass a Moonraker craft,
Towing what seems to be a life raft,
Seems strange, we thought,
Perhaps from the Sea of Tranquillity, we report,
Hey, isn’t that James Bond and Dr Goudhead?
Yes, going to destroy the Evil Mr Drax, having seen red,
He’s trying to create a space age Noah’s Ark,
While keeping Earthlings’ in the dark,
Plans to annihilate them by bacterial agents,
So when humans make bodily contact, spread contagious Drax?
Exclaims a sleepy environmentalist,
Are you Brahms and Liszt?
That’s a Yorkshire power station,
Heading Britain’s’ clean air operation,
Then out of the black, a blinding flash.
No, not Gordon,
Drax has a near Darth Invader experience.
Steven Bown, Chesterfield, Derbyshire
HOPE
A bright speck of gold,
Rests on the street,
Crinkled its edges appear.
Its sunlight colour shines clear,
Against monotonous grey.
I bend and pick,
Rays of petals in diamond water,
A daffodil can lighten a day.
Harriet Avins, Leeds, West Yorkshire
MY TOWN
Merthyr was a large town, set at the industrial centre of welsh heart.
A sprawling matrix of factory cones and chimneys belched a spectral,
Concoction of green and blue smoke into a permanently sunken sky,
And caused a ceaseless stream of smog to languish above the grey,
Waters of the river.
Market day was on Saturday and then the narrow roads,
Bordered by the huddled houses,
Would be thronged with shoppers hunting for bargains,
In the misty morning air.
The distant mud-flats lay strewn across the proposed site,
Of a new housing estate, a sword-grey sliver that spanned,
The horizon.
Elizabeth Reville, Brecon, Wales
SECRET PRESCRIPTIONS
In the glades you kneel to reap,
Ingredients all you need to keep,
Collect your petals and carve your bark,
Assemble them all in your room so dark.
Grind away through the weary hours,
Animal parts and cuts of flowers,
Potions, poultices, elixirs all,
For when we’re ill we’ll come to call.
To seek your knowledge and your attention,
The fact we visit we will not mention,
With rashes, swellings, cuts and aches,
Painful bones and nervous shakes.
Stomach ailments and gashes deep,
Swollen joints and sores that weep,
With home grown gifts we bid you well,
A solemn promise never to tell.
We’d called on you and your magic side,
Moonlight visits always denied,
But whispers and rumours like cancer grow,
Too soon the men in black will know.
Andrew Phillips, Carmarthenshire, Wales
VIEW FROM AN ATTIC WINDOW
I open the attic window and gaze on a surreal scene,
Glorious flares of yellow and amber, tinged with red and green.
Floating in demonic darkness, the moon throws a ghostly glow,
An eerie ethereal ectoplasm falling on the ocean flow.
Exposed on a cosmic canvas, the irresistible radiance of Mars,
A rare dramatic spectacle amongst the silvery stars.
Wanton water lies on the foreshore, rejected by ebbing waves,
Myriads of mounds, sandtraps, gloomy gruesome graves.
Like a monster forever shackled, the mighty gas rig sits,
In the dead of the night, a blaze so bright, its steely frame emits.
Far away on a haunting horizon, a band of bobbing boats ride,
Jewels in a nautical kingdom, waiting for the turn of the tide.
Suspended over mysterious waters, a bridge of daring design,
Reviving a Victorian seaside with its charming exquisite lines.
Exotic turquoise twinkling entices the eye further on
To the luring lights of Lytham, and towering sentinel beyond.
Ruth Hayes, Southport, Merseyside
OH HEAVENLY SKY POEM OR VERSE
Oh heavenly sky how lovely you do look in the morning sun and at night when the moon shines.
O heavenly sky you look beautiful with the stars that twinkle in the dark sky.
Oh heavenly sky how wonderful you look on the fifth of November when the fireworks light up the sky.
Oh heavenly sky all things that fly in the sky by day and by night.
Oh heavenly sky with all the planets that come out at night
Jupiter, Satan, Mercury, Venus all look lovely in the sky at night.
Sue Blagden, Southport, Merseyside
MIND BENDER
Music on the mind
The colours of the sea
The grains of the sand
The touch of a hand!
The camera is switched on
The music plays on
The camera then flashes
The music system crashes!
A music collection from A to Z
In alphabetical order
It’s all about me!
Top of the Pops
King of the crops
A star of CCTV
You got to move on now
I like being free!
Karen Louise Jenkins, Eccles, Greater Manchester
CREATIVE SPIRIT
Wafting ethereal the sands of time, the hourglass holds no fear.
Elusive visitor wandering nomad fleeting in from that other sphere.
Guiding all who roam in mind and soul, places not listed in Baedeker.
Blowing in silent song an alluring round to comfort those who hear.
Your faithful hounds scent that sound as message you will appear.
Capriciously pouncing but deaf your ear to the call of command.
Benevolent tyrant bestowing alms in a paradox of artistic kind.
Manna from heaven, hell to create feeding an insatiable appetite.
Dieting on nourishing nouns in fermenting alchemy to transmute.
Digested letters from a cauldron of verbs in magic to produce.
A counterpoint of poetry mercurial in singing breath to infuse.
On page of blank paper a solo from writer to reader to effuse.
In symbiotic duet of harmony to hum in silence the tenor to brood.
Brian Handley, Wallasey, Merseyside
Brian Handley said: “My poetry is influenced by music - both arts of using sound and rhythm to create a mood. I have always composed music for piano and classical guitar solos which I see as poetry without words. I started writing poetry seriously after completing a course in English literature. I try to reflect a myriad of possible meanings to conjure pictures from words or sounds for anyone to enjoy in their own individual way.”
SPRING AT LAST
The trees outside are shining bright,
Their leaves, some green and some pure white,
Twist and dance in spring sunlight.
Six months of cold and grey and now,
The buds are bursting on the bough,
We welcome you, the spring and how.
The colours all shine bright today,
They’re bathed in sun, not drowned in grey,
Oh how we love the days of May.
The patio window’s like a frame,
It’s picture never looks the same,
As budding flowers burst out aflame.
The insects dancing in the breeze,
The butterflies and busy bees,
Who dart among the flowers with ease.
The blueness of the sky above,
Shines behind the pure white dove,
The world seems filled with joy and love.
Valerie Burch, Hyde, Cheshire
IT SAYS IT ALL
To tell some one a story,
May be endless and too long,
Would fade away the glory,
Even if sang in a song.
It’s better in a poem,
For poetry says a lot,
As it tells the whole story,
You can’t say you forgot.
For every word is shorten,
Just for you to understand,
With every word important,
For poetry in rhyme is grand.
It is a story rhythm,
And is the art of old,
Poetry that is written,
Is the way it is told.
Margaret Burtenshaw-Haines, Whitland, Wales
I DON’T
I don’t write poems on Mondays,
I don’t know why I don’t.
I won’t write poems on Tuesdays,
I won’t because I won’t.
I can’t write poems on Wednesdays,
The effort is too much.
I daren’t write poems on Thursdays,
I haven’t got the touch.
I shan’t write poems on Fridays,
It’s too near the weekend.
I don’t write poems on Saturdays,
I haven’t time to spend.
I don’t write poems on Sundays,
The best day, so to speak.
The reason is quite simple,
I leave them till next week.
Gordon Cowell, Hull, East Yorkshire
Dedicated to the country folk of Devonshire, where time moves so slowly and beauty never fades.
DAYDREAMER
I close my eyes when all can wait,
To find I’m in another state,
On clouds with footsteps running free,
Defy the force of gravity.
Wings to take me through the sky,
Where angels glide and eagles fly.
I’ll put life’s troubles in reverse,
And travel through the universe,
No time or matter to obey,
Forget them for another day
Fred Ablitt, Southend-on-Sea, Essex
Born in Westcliff-on-Sea, Fred Ablitt has interests including writing,
fishing, inventing and motorcycles. “I started writing poetry in 1999
on a sudden inspiration. I discovered that poetry is a perfect way of
expressing my deepest thoughts,” he explained. Aged 47, Fred is a
plumber on a mission to become more recognised as a poet and writer.
He is married to Julie and they have children Michael, Simon, Jason,
Scott, Anna-Marie and Elizabeth. “I would like to be remembered for
making a positive contribution to the world and inspiring future
generations,” added Fred.