The author’s poem to his mother when he was aged 7
Slightly Bemused writes:
I am glad to say that I am feeling much better, and got my first jab, next one soon and then I can travel the world again one decrepit step at a time.
I have been going through old diaries and records for/with stories about my Dad [Slighly’s father passed away earlier this month]. As a family we want to gather the memories for our later generations, such as my own Little Slightly. I sadly never knew my Dad’s Dad – he passed before I was even a twinkle.
My little one did meet her granddad, and they corresponded quite a bit, the old fashioned way with pen, paper and envelopes. I got the occasional one, but then I was off gallivanting around some interesting parts of the world.
Anyway, I found this below, from a blog I tried to start years ago, but limited internet connectivity and heavy workload doomed it to failure. But it does mention my Dad, and in a peculiar way I also thought people might find it amusing. As with that blog, I give the introduction long after actually starting to post. I fancied myself a poet. Turned out I am not, and certainly not up to the standards of the wordsmiths of Broadsheet.
Introduction to The Not Quite Poetry Sessions
Hi All, and welcome to any crazy enough to be reading this.
Welcome to my first blogging experience. And, as per my normal style, I got it backwards. The Introduction is supposed to come before the main event starts. But who cares?
Anyway, welcome to the Not Quote Poetry Sessions. I have, over the years, in fits of boredom, ennui, fear, rejection, anger, and plain drunkenness written several pieces that the kind might refer to as a kind of poetry. I have also come across scribblings in my diaries that may perhaps be referred to as my attempts at philosophy, or something. Given I was most likely drunk at the time, I am not sure. But I thought I might share it with you all, and so help reduce the average IQ of the planet by a few percentage points
So where did this come from? I am not sure. My writing is not consistent, in that I do not pump out several poems a week, month, year, or whatever. Only when the muse struck (or I got drunk with a pen and diary handy ) and so there is no real theme.
There are several written as paens to an old, sadly departed girlfriend. And others to whom I gave my heart. Either nice poems, or ones after rejection. Mostly the latter. As my brother once said, we mostly write when in extremes of emotion, and I take rejection extremely badly – usually with a few pints followed by a bottle of something nicely alcoholic. [New note May 2021: sadly I have had to put that side away and can only have the occasional tipple now. Younger oldies recover faster, but older minds are a little better at rejection :-) SB]
In one case, coming soon, I answered the beautiful poem of W.B. Yeats: He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven. It was after I found my marriage was breaking up, and I did not particularly like my wife at the time. So, while I do not consider it a plagiarist poem, it is most definitely influenced, and written as closely as I could to the style and language used by W.B. as a direct response, or perhaps the same person later. Not sure if Yeats would approve, but I do not classify myself anywhere close to his standard, and hope more that he forgives my temerity.
Why the name? Well, I rarely use rhyme at the end of each line. I personally do not believe poetry needs rhyme – that runs the risk of becoming doggerel. It does need meter, though, and I have tried to have at least some meter in each. I have also put rhyme sometimes within sentences or even words or syllables, so that when spoken the rhyme appears, but not when written if looking at ends of sentences. My father once saw an old poem of mine, not yet posted, that had no rhyme at all. He told me that without rhyme, it was not quite poetry. And so my title was born. I would become a writer, not of poetry, but of Not Quite Poetry.
I have already posted a couple of my ‘works’, and will continue with a few more a week for a while. There is no particular order, and at this time I do not intend to comment on the circumstances surrounding given poems. Some are just too personal, but mainly because I would like that people make up their own interpretations of what was meant. Additionally, I hope to post small snippets, perhaps cogent paragraphs from my diaries over the years that I think are more interesting than others. Sometimes I may just post phrases that may mean something to me. Freedom is my canvas, and I intend to fill it to the edges.
He Had the Cloths of Heaven
I had the cloths of Heaven
Woven in light of gold and silver
Starlight and moonlight embroidered
And laid in colours of light and night.
In a swoon I laid them at her feet
That she might walk above the clouds and sun
But her hobnail boots cut those cloths
And now my dreams are nought but shrouds
Sorry, Mr Yeats!
Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.
Some gems are found all the same, and they can give a right giggle.