I think I'll wright a poem in the form of a rhombusNo, better still, a dodecahedron.
Take an afternoon to muse on whether Old Goudy is
More passionate than Garamond
And which I’m more font of.
Dig out my old word association tests from the shrink
Sprinkle ‘mesmeric rocks’, ‘jagged wolf’, ‘muscular aeroplane’
With a liberal dash of what it means to be a woman -
You know the kind of thing.
Avoid all internal and half-rhyme
And obvious poet-y words like ‘shard’ or 'rivulet'.
People will marvel at my resonance.
It will sound exactly as if it means something
Brought to you direct from the metaphysical mind.
(But really it's just me, the cat
A fridge magnet alphabet
And nothing decent on the box.
tee hee)
© LS King 2006
I have very rude fridge magnets that are wholly unsuitable for someone who has small children in the house. My six year old arranges them in all sorts of weird combinations - some of which are very funny and some of which are plain pornographic and I guess some of them could be considered poetic (well, if one were drunk maybe?).
ReplyDeleteI once found "penis" in the cat's bowl! The cat didn't seem bothered at the time but she did die soon after.
I really like those fridge magnets that you can make sentences and stuff with...when my kids were little someone gave me a set of the alphabet kind but honestly, cooking and having a rugrat in the kitchen don't make it condusive to realxed cookery!!
ReplyDeleteI've got several sets of the poetic fridge magnets (including the more adult ones) but like RB they've currently been removed due to a 6 year old who has very quickly learnt the joy of reading...
ReplyDeleteWhat, not even reality shows?
ReplyDeleteWell there is a day of the week when it's just wall-to-wall dancing and poor talent shows Rol!
ReplyDeleteI do have some standards, low as they may be.
The poem ends like Philip Larkin... lowering high standards (high windows?) to the here-and-now mundane.
ReplyDeleteThis is my favourite poem.
In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares
They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.