A couple of years ago, I started writing a St. George’s Day poem. I had this idea, see — well, more of an image, in my head. I’d seen a billboard with an England fan’s face on it. White greasepaint, red cross, as solemn as if his life depended on the match. Who knows, maybe it did. I don’t have much truck for football myself, but it did spark an idea in me. Rather than St. George a chivalrous knight, why not St. George a berserker, a raging, painted warrior fighting for his faith against his hellish opponent? I could write about that.
Read MoreCategory: Poetry
New Atlantis: A Poem
I hang my head in shame. It has been more than six months since I’ve put finger to key and clacked a new blog post into being. More than six months since sharing a story, poem, or even a trademark thought or reflection. Well, it ends today. I’ve a new poem to share with you, and a little tale to go with it. Patient readers, I present for your pleasure: New Atlantis.
2022: Good for babies, disastrous for writing
You might recall my last blog post. I described the recent changes I’d made in life: I was immersed in teacher training and expecting a baby in January. Well, I’m now a teacher and, even more importantly, a father. Tristan Smith was born on 12th January 2022, and he’s as perfect a baby as we could hope for. Yes: even when he cries all day. I loved that crying when I was trying to complete my final assessment for my PGCE. Loved it. Hmm.
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Get Rhythm: How to Write in Poetic Meter
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary…
Ever wondered why some poetry sounds so good when you speak it out loud? How it contains its own rhythm that you can’t help but fall into? There’s a word for that. Poetic meter*.
This article started life as an essay on meter and how to write in it. But seeing as I got bored writing it, I figure it wouldn’t have enticed my readers to stick around reading it. And I am married to a web analyst who notices things like my website’s performance. So we’re going to try something snappier; more fun and more visual.
Pre-Meditated Poetry vs. Writing Poetry of Passion
So how’s everyone doing in quarantine? Run out of films to watch or books to read? Eaten a housemate? No, of course things aren’t that bad yet. Netflix is infinite, books are plentiful, and your housemate won’t fit in your oven. But, there is plenty of time for catching up on tasks around the house. Plenty of time for writing. Plenty of time to pay some attention to my neglected blog – and perhaps for writing poetry…
I do poetry quite regularly now. Not instead of prose; that still gets its 5000 words a week (occasionally I even send work off to agents or competitions; I just don’t advertise the fact). Performing poetry means a lot of my media posts now are about poetry, especially since I’ve got some poetry friends to tweet and twitter with. Also, pictures of me on a stage gesticulating by a microphone make for better Tweets than wrote more words today:
Chatting with other poets, I’ve come to realise that my poetry-writing process might be a bit different to the norm – though not, I suspect, different to the process of a prose writer. You see, at the poetry nights I go to, most poets have fresh material every month: new bits of verse about things they’ve done or seen, or feelings they’ve had. I will listen, sifting through my Kindle for anything I might not have read out yet, coming up short. I think my poems might have a longer gestation period than others.
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Remembrance Day: A Poem
I wrote this Remembrance Day poem in the days following Remembrance Sunday, which this year fell on 12th November. I had spent the weekend in Edinburgh for a friend’s wedding, and before the ceremony my own fiance and I took the opportunity to explore the city.
It struck me that remembrance is taken more seriously by some than others.
A little different to my usual style, but different subjects require different approaches.
(Reading this back in 2020, I can see parts of this I might tweak or change. I write a lot more poetry now, both metered and free verse, but I like reading this as it shows how I went about exploring my opinions with the techniques I knew at the time.)
I hope you enjoy this Remembrance Day poem.
Remembrance Day
November morning, near one hundred years since it all fell quiet
The city centre occupied by tourists, shoppers, poppy-wearers
Cold air invades hats, scarves, coats.
Shops offer warmth from overhead heaters. The threat of Christmas is tangible now.
The department store speakers make their announcement close to the hour
Shoppers, entrenched in aisles, finger handbags, gift sets. Buyers shuffle in the queue.
The radio switches to the BBC. A presenter speaks the Queen’s English
As the bells begin to chime.
Silence falls.
Hats are removed and held like prayers. Eyes cast to the floor.
Somewhere, a phone dings, apologetic. Then quiet. Somewhere else, the rustle of clothes hangers. Voices outside raise and fall as their owners pass the door.
After a minute (and with a minute still to go), the checkout bleeps again, bleeps again, like radar.
Then the radio resumes its crackling Queen’s. Shoppers reprise their plans for the season.
The silence is observed. The remembrance is forgotten.
