If only I could be a dog,
how easy life would be.
I wouldn’t have to do this blog.
My evenings would be free.
A dog’s life
14 Tuesday Sep 2021
Posted Ditties
in14 Tuesday Sep 2021
Posted Ditties
in
If only I could be a dog,
how easy life would be.
I wouldn’t have to do this blog.
My evenings would be free.
03 Friday Apr 2015
Posted Ditties, Publications, Sonnets
inI’ve been playing quite a lot of chess over the last 1½ years, both online and over the board. I played quite a bit as a kid, but other interests, not least poetry, elbowed their way into the foreground. What started me off again was writing this sonnet:
Chess with Monsieur Joffroy
In memory of Frédérique Joffroy (1962-1980)
Losing to me wasn’t the badge of shame
your father thought it was. He couldn’t stop
the stronger player coming out on top.
It came as quite a shock to hear him claim
my proletarian tactics were to blame.
It’s standard stuff to snatch a pawn, then swap
off all the pieces; suicide to drop
the basic principle behind the game.
To think that he was meant to be the host!
We were thirteen, your father forty-four.
Five years later I was told, by post,
that you, my friend, had hanged yourself. Your ghost
jolted my memory. Outplayed once more,
your father kicked the table to the floor.
It was published in CHESS Magazine in January. At my suggestion, I was given a year’s subscription instead of payment.
Chess has now elbowed poetry into the background. Until last month I hadn’t written anything for half a year. Then I wrote this. A friend of mine, Nigel Stuart, has added two more stanzas, which he has given me permission to post here:
Though they might seem distinct, as the white and the black,
xxxchiaroscuro best lights each endeavour –
while the whitest of knights treads a devious track,
xxxpawns transgendered as queens render pleasure,
and a sinuous line, in conception divine,
xxxoften issues in muddles of meaning,
and an image whose shine, past attempts to refine
xxxits expression, turns out overweening.
Though some poetry seems by illumining dreams
xxxto rival the light of the cinema,
neo-realist themes and their verismo gleams,
xxxshow illusory scenes, not dissimilar.
Every struggling art, when considered apart,
xxxseems a separate route to redemption,
yet one finds at its heart there’s inscribed from the start,
xxxfrom exposure – there’s never exemption.
19 Friday Sep 2014
Posted Ditties
inHere lies our land: every airt
Beneath swift clouds, glad glints of sun,
Belonging to none but itself.
We are mere transients, who sing
Its westlin’ winds and fernie braes,
Northern lights and siller tides,
Small folk playing our part.
‘Come all ye’, the country says,
You win me, who take me most to heart.
Notes:
airt = direction (but also “art”)
siller = silver
06 Saturday Jul 2013
Posted Ditties
in23 Saturday Mar 2013
Paul Stevens, who created and sustained the entirely original online poetry journals, The Shit Creek Review, The Chimaera, and The Flea, died peacefully yesterday in the presence of his family.
Unaware of this, I was up most of last night. I’d asked Patricia Wallace Jones the day before about whether I could use the two illustrations she did for two of my sonnets in The Chimaera and The Shit Creek Review for my forthcoming book. She’d said that would be fine, and she was sure Paul wouldn’t mind. I’d told her I was interested in having more of her illustrations in my book, and last night we discussed this at some length.
Paul was born in Sheffield, Yorkshire, but lived in Australia for most of his life. He was a teacher, a poet, and a free spirit.
I’ve written a four-liner for him that will introduce the penultimate section in my forthcoming collection:
It’s no surprise, yet still a shock
that you, my friend, have passed away.
You taught me how to turn the clock
around: each night it’s someone’s day.
To think of all the people Paul has introduced to each other!
18 Monday Feb 2013
Posted Ditties
inTags
Many moons ago my sister Barbie asked me to write a piece for her. Last month, after I’d sent her a sonnet about a sad incident in my childhood, she wrote to me: “I challenge you to write a happy sonnet about your childhood!” Well, it’s not a sonnet, but it’s a sunny piece, and it’s one for her. It’s also a greeting on her birthday, which is today – so that’s three out of four boxes ticked. The happy sonnet about my childhood will have to come later.
The Belle of Perth
Best wishes on your Birthday,
Barbie (never Barbara Anne!),
who, once the belle of Perth, may
win the Golden Palm at Cannes
so there can be another
lass besides Jane Campion.
According to your brother,
you’ve been more than champion.