A ghazal.

Blood Dance.

Pointed toes in ballet shoes, feet floated – in blood
pain etched on faces straining, reflected – in blood.

African roots, slavery, blues songs of the land
generations downtrodden, thwarted – in blood.

Tango anger, passions fuelled, drawn into the clash
Brazilian beauty, men challenging, defeated - in blood.

Belly bloated, stretched purple, veined and heaving
birth screams, mother’s cries, baby coated – in blood.

Salsa women, dresses weaving, tempo hot and fast
Bodies merging, lustful dreaming, heated - in blood.

Children grown, leaving home, time to start again
Language studies, essays written, noted – in blood.

Poet's lines, words of power, magic to add
Stanzas voiced to the air, metered – in blood.

Summer storm Villanelle

Summer Storm

Lightning in the clouds, weaves a heavenly dance
Rain and hail fall from clouds in a downpour
We stand and watch nature’s fury advance

The ground drinks all it can then takes a stance
Rivulets begin to run and explore
Lightning in the clouds, weaves a heavenly dance

Angry water leads the charge with a lance
Cutting down trees, creating an eyesore
We stand and watch nature’s fury advance

Water swirling by, people entranced
Houses lost, lives lost, the future unsure
Lightning in the clouds, weaves a heavenly dance

The power of a summer storm romance
Driving debris downstream to the seashore
We stand and watch nature’s fury advance

One day the river increased its expanse
Nature through our land took a mystery tour
Lightning in the clouds, weaved a heavenly dance
We stood and watched nature’s fury advance

Earlier this semester we were told about the poetry style called a Villanelle. It is a 19 line poem with five 3 line stanzas and a concluding 4 line stanza. The other rules are that each line must have 10 syllables and that the first line is repeated in line 6, 12 & 18 while the third line is repeated in lines 9, 15 and 19. The most famous of these poems is Dylan Thomas's poem 'Do not go gentle into that good night.' I have wanted to try out one of these since then and finally got around to it. I hope it works.

Something a little lighter!

The Dead Elephant

It’s Wednesday,
time to drag the dead elephant out of its cage.
Its lumbering bulk following behind me.
Inert, grey and dead!
Tugging on its tail provides a spark of life.
Hauling on its trunk, it leaps forward
propelled with energy,
bumping into my ankles

Turning, glaring, I stare at it
while it rumbles back at me.
We are at an impasse.
I drag it from room to room
Scaring up the dog.

The dog hates the dead elephant,
fears its trumpeting and wheezing.
The dead elephant resents the dog.
Its trunk sucks up dog hair
and creates wheezy, smelly farts
that belch from its stomach, filling
the air with stale doggy aroma

The grey trunk searches under the furniture reaching,
for the crisps, peanuts and food
that the house monkeys have dropped behind.
Dropped during their clamber over the couches,
dropped as they gazed mindlessly at the glass
window of their virtual world.

As Ring master I conduct the circus.
Dictate when the Dead Elephant will appear.
Wednesdays are Dead Elephant Day.

The rest of the week – Monkeys rule!


I am dedicating this poem to a family friend - Margaret Middleton. She coined the phrase "Dragging out the Dead Elephant." This morning between 5.30am and 6am as I tried to capture just a few more moments sleep, I started thinking about my chores for the day and this poem began to percolate. So hope you all enjoy just a little Housework Laughter.

Yes for those of you who didn't get it - It is the vacuum cleaner.

Our Name is Ruth.

Standing in the dark wings of that brightly lit stage.
Elegant stockinged legs, encased in glossy, ebony court heels.
At their side –
two shiny, black, buckle-up shoes,
white socks, and two little legs
Waiting –
waiting for their cue.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Ruth!”

We step into the light, out of the darkness, out of our secret world.
The audience stands and I feel her hand tug in mine.
She knows that today everything will change.

Our name is Ruth.
How can we both have the same name?
We are not the same person – we are different.
Ruth with the long stockinged legs strides through life;
she is courageous and telling our story.

Our name is Ruth.
How can we both have the same name?
We are not the same person – we are different.
Ruth with the white socks steps quietly in the shadows;
she is scared and telling our story.

I cannot reach the microphone.
I step up onto the box, the box given to me by the man in the grey suit.
I fold my hands in front of me to stop them shaking.
I take a deep breath, the audience breathes with me.
They wait –
I open my mouth.
They wait –
I open my mouth –
and scream!
I open my mouth and let out the scream that has built for 35 years.


What did they expect?
That I would stand calmly and relate our story.
No it is time to scream!
I see it reflected in their eyes.

Now I have their attention and we can begin our story –

“Our name is Ruth.”

What a life?

Yellow Washing Gloves

The sink filled with hot, soapy water.
Hands filling yellow gloves
Gloves capturing her hands
Imprisoning her behind the bars of her marriage.

Prison uniform yellow,
Worn hands sliding into the rubber handcuffs.
Her marriage rings
Links in her chain gang life.

Sentenced to a life of hard labour
and servitude.
The warden – her husband
Her jailors – three children
clutching at her skirts.

Freedom yearned for, beyond
even her dreams.
Instead nightmares of dishes,
cleaning, housework and
Duty Sex!

Escape glimpsed in the faces of young,
teenage lovers
Hopeful, youthful like she had once been
In Love
In Love with life and her man.

Death Sentence passed at the sink
Yellow gloves autopsying her life
Result:
Nothing, No Joy, No Soul
She died years ago, only her body –

Died yesterday.

Eyes Wide Shut

Eyes Wide Shut by Beverly Adair

She knew if she opened her eyes, she would see him
She knew if she closed her eyes, he would be there
So she slept with her eyes wide shut.

He lived inside her soul, always with her
He lived in her house, always there
So she slept with her eyes wide shut.

Even when he left, part of him stayed
Even when she left, she took him with her
So she slept with her eyes wide shut.

Each morning she shut her eyes wide and woke
Each day she shut her eyes wide and walked
She learnt to live with her eyes shut wide.

At night when she rested, she remained on guard
At night when she prayed, no God heard
So she lived with her eyes shut wide.

The day he died, she shut her eyes
The day he died, she opened her mouth
The day he died, she screamed
The day he died, she cried

And then she slept –
with her eyes shut.

A Triolet

A Triolet is a very structured poem, that has been described as the 'Hallmark' of the medieval period. It was written as a little poem that could be stuck into a box of chocolates or a small gift.

It is often sweet and romantic or even rather humourous.

Here are some details:



Line One is repeated in line 4 & 7

Line 2 is repeated in line 8

Line 3,5 & 7 are different.



There are also 2 rhymes in the poem.



We were given the following example, which became so famous that it spurned a number of replies. I hope you enjoy it.



To a Fat Lady Seen from the Train by Francis Cornford.

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?


Chesterton's reply

Why do you rush through the fields in trains,
Guessing so much and so much.
Who do you flash through the flowery meads,
Fat-head poet that nobody reads;
And why do you know such a frightful lot
About people in gloves and such?

Houseman's reply

O why do you walk through the fields in boots,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody shoots,
Why do you walk through the fields in boots,
When the grass is soft as the breast of coots
And shivering-sweet to the touch?

Missing so much and so much.

And here is mine which I am thinking of submitting for the competition. It has to follow the example we were given, so lets hope it is popular.

Writing 2100 - A poetry student (by Beverly Adair)

O why do you walk through the Great Court of Learning
Sprouting your poetry and prose?
O amateur poet for fame so a yearning
Why do you walk through the Great Court of Learning?
Lady Love, your heart always a spurning
The Hallmark Crap that you do compose
O why do you walk through the Great Court of Learning,
Sprouting your poetry and prose?