Poetry

There's a book on my shelf that I keep revisiting. It's Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled in which he explains the processes of poetry writing. I love reading Stephen Fry. He writes as he talks and it’s like having him sitting next to me but this book has beaten me. I never knew that poetry could be SO complicated with its anapaest, dactyl, molasses... It makes my attempts at poetry writing look embarrassingly naive. But does that matter? I enjoy writing poetry so I’m issuing a warning! I’m going to carry on writing it, however naive it may be.

My Little Nut Tree - a warning about wishes

It all began one winter. I was sick of nuts to eat,

So I asked my little nut tree for a very special treat.

When spring arrived my garden was all lit up with the glare

From a shining, silver nutmeg and a gleaming, golden pear.

‘What luck!’ I thought but people came from miles around to stare

At my super, silver nutmeg and my gorgeous, golden pear.

Some of them were greedy and I knew I must take care

Of my solid, silver nutmeg and my great big, golden pear.

So I hired guards with snarling dogs and a sign that said, ‘Beware!’

To protect my lovely nutmeg and my precious, golden pear.

But the guards gave me a bill and said, “You know it’s only fair.”

I couldn’t pay. I only had a nutmeg and a pear.

They shouted and got angry and it gave me quite a scare,

So I paid them all I had… which was the nutmeg and the pear.

That winter I was hungry. I’d not even nuts to eat.

So I made a wish and asked my tree for yet another treat.

It worked! I have a nut tree and lots of nuts it bears.

Not a single, silver nutmeg and no silly, golden pears.

I guess we should think carefully before we wish for things.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I’ll finish the ironing.

Tomorrow I’ll change all the sheets.

Tomorrow I’ll vacuum the whole of the house

And get cat fur off all of the seats.

Tomorrow I’ll sort out the wardrobes.

Tomorrow I’ll tidy the drawers.

Tomorrow I might even bake us a cake

And some daintily iced petit-fours.

But today I will just put my feet up,

Have a bit of a rest and some tea,

Cause the thought of tomorrow’s work schedule

Is getting the better of me.

When I read this to Mr A he said, ‘That’s you to a tee!’ Well, really!

Onions  

I tug at the cellophane wrap but

Crinkle-sealed edges refuse to part.

Each Spring he dug the earth

Round the back of the outside loo

And planted sets in rows.

I rummage through my drawer

Beneath spatulas and holed plastic spoons.

He hoed and tended them after work.

He showed them off to visitors.

He won rosettes with them.

My scissors slides through cellophane

Like a spade through well-tilled soil.

He pulled one from the earth each day

Cut it into slices for our evening meal

Laughed at the tears in my eyes.

The cellophane falls away

To reveal a moulded polystyrene base.

His spade would glisten from the care of a well-oiled rag.

Now it lies at the back of the shed

Wrapped in cobwebs.

I stare at two mouldy onions, brown and lifeless

Like the earth round the back of the outside loo.