Saint Valentine says
he needs poets to write…
roses are red
(well, some are pink) :
Saint Valentine says
he needs hearts expressed in ink..
poems are read;
that’s the good news here;
Saint Valentine’s day
could last all year…
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True, I can rhyme – endwords, and inner too;
march to a metre –regular in treador cunningly disjointed – silken, the threadthen sharply pulled, to wake the reader’s ear;rhythms, I can dance with a magic, laughing twirl;play like the ringlets of poetic curls;but metaphor – ah, there’s the sadness in my play:that golden box, its gleaming lid all joy,all mystery… if I only had…
The ‘Journal of Death Studies’ for April2004
hospital library, top shelfjust out of wheelchair reach,on the shelf labelled ‘Reference’)observed thatnonfiction writers tend to die, factually, at sixty-eight;novelists tie it all up at sixty-six;playwrights lower the curtain at sixty-three,and poets close their stanzas at sixty-two.Well, thanks..six years – looking on the bright side –for your favourite biographer to write you up;four years for…
‘Since your breakdown, Michael,
Was I supposed to feel flattered,since this was evidently meant as a compliment –leaving a vapour trail of implicationsabout past behaviour across the clear sky of my mind?No, I did not feel flattered;though agreeably unconcernedabout the degree of un-observation in an old friend;how could he not seethat I was as I ever was, thoughminus some…
You can’t write
but if you make nice youmay find that poetrycan surprise youand write itselfonto the shelfand you’ll be proudto be read aloudlove has a wayto win the day
a happy man
life
if those
thoughtswouldcometogetherinto aP O E M