I wish I was a good enough writer to write poems! Sadly the rules fly straight over my head. Instead I tend to write streams of consciousness that sound pretty but have no formal structure. Maybe I'll read up on it and give it a go one day though.
I came across an article in Elle about a poet called Adam O'Riordan and was intrigued at what his poems were like. I looked it up and really like his style. Here's two I like....
Small Adult Skull
The dome I hold is an empty cathedralin the minim rest at an organist's rehearsal.
No clues here to a lifehowever the shadow-play of my anglepoise might attempt to aggregate a face,feign grief, surprise, delight. It waits like a glass boxin a bankrupt jeweller's.
This monotony of boneis a snapshot of the moon.I turn it through its cycle, feel its pull: from swaddling-cloth to specimen case.
I contemplate it for hours on end.Still it gives up not the briefest song.
No clues here to a lifehowever the shadow-play of my anglepoise might attempt to aggregate a face,feign grief, surprise, delight. It waits like a glass boxin a bankrupt jeweller's.
This monotony of boneis a snapshot of the moon.I turn it through its cycle, feel its pull: from swaddling-cloth to specimen case.
I contemplate it for hours on end.Still it gives up not the briefest song.
Trawling
The tiniest stress fracturecould stop the satellite as it travels like a Trappistin silence through the vacuum's detritus; carbon-carbon, a C116-A solar panel. But it goes on. We bounce ideas off it, it spreads the word
of a cloud bank sixty leagues outfrom a small African republicstruggling with insurgency and pandemic,a Captain announces they'll fly above it.A grandmother presses her cold noseto the porthole but cannot make outthe rocking horse of the lonely trawler below;
the smell of spilt diesel, fish guts, blood and brine, gravity in flux, a coffee cup slides along the galley,its thick dregs are J M W Turner's Snowstorm: Steamboat off a Harbour's Mouth.
of a cloud bank sixty leagues outfrom a small African republicstruggling with insurgency and pandemic,a Captain announces they'll fly above it.A grandmother presses her cold noseto the porthole but cannot make outthe rocking horse of the lonely trawler below;
the smell of spilt diesel, fish guts, blood and brine, gravity in flux, a coffee cup slides along the galley,its thick dregs are J M W Turner's Snowstorm: Steamboat off a Harbour's Mouth.
I like it :)
and here's The Poem- Limelight's bio of Adam
"Adam O'Riordan was born in Manchester in 1982 and read English at Oxford
University. He studied poetry under Andrew Motion at the University of
London and was awarded the inaugural Peters, Fraser and Dunlop poetry prize.
He currently works part-time for the publisher Enitharmon and as a tutor. In
2006, he was awarded an ACE writer's bursary."
Clever Cat no? It's fun to play with words.
2 comments:
Anything you write is art. Poetry is whatever you say it is. The trick is just to write and see what happens. You really can write, I've read your blog. Remeber there are no rules.
Oh thank you, that's really kind of you to say, and very true- shouldn't be confined by rules! I've never been a fan of structure anyway!
Thanks again, and thanks for following!
x
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