Thursday, 25 June 2009

Iambic Pentameter

I've realised lately that most of my work is written in free verse. To encourage myself to write more broadly I've set myself a task of writing to a different poetic form each week. I understand that this may sound contrived, and in a way I agree. But I also think that it may improve my skill to be able to alter my language in way that'll fit with a prescribed form. This week I've chosen rhymed iambic pentameter, loved by the renaissance poets and dramatists. If anyone has a suggestion for the title I'd be more than happy to hear it.


 


 

Why is it so that dreams mislead the heart?

Pretends to us that fiction happened true.

And so we're left with conscious torn apart,

as foundless doubts grasp seeds of hope anew.


 

Forbidding them to plant their gentle roots;

Restricting growth which suffocates their hope;

Removing happiness that fed the shoots;

Strangling rational thought with doubtful rope.


 

Or is it so that heart misleads our dreams?

Encouraging the want we most desire.

On waking thought: We've yielded what it seems

we lacked, but in reality just ire.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Don’t Throw Stones

Isn't it strange how a dream can affect your mood for an entire day? I'm a rational, over-logical person, yet I've let a subconscious image of a situation, that I am consciously aware did not (and more-than-likely will not) ever happen, ruin my Sunday. What makes this worse is if the said dream did realise itself, I wouldn't care at all. Our good friend Freud dubbed dreams to be "the royal road to your unconscious" and that interpretation of them can unearth our repressed sexual desires. I've spent a disproportionate amount of my time today looking for any clues which, alas, are yet to been found. Luckily a psychologist reminded that Freud is widely discredited, so I've left it for now and will make an effort to drink less before going to sleep.

    The actually reason I'm writing today is to have a small rant about hypocrisy whilst exposing a certain 'Lady' who lives in the penthouse of the house that I live in. Her name is Lady Pilkington, an heiress to the eponymous multinational glass manufacturer. Do not be fooled, although coming from aristocratic stock she is not a real Lady. Well, she is biologically a lady (I think) but her peerage is bought and not hers by inheritance. Pilkington was evicted from her last residency on numerous counts of harassment, specifically against her neighbours. She allegedly held orgies at her place and was convicted for an incident including a Jacuzzi at the rear of her garden.

    I shan't judge her and as old-fashioned as it sounds what she chooses to do in the privacy of her home is no concern of mine, especially if she is enjoying herself and isn't harassing the rest of our building. However, my complaint starts here. Those that know where I live (South Parade) will know that we have full view of the infamous Southsea Rock Gardens: By day a floral sanctuary for pensioners, but by night a cruising area for gay men. Lady Pilkington has written to the local press complaining how she has to "put up with watching men having sex with one another" adding that she finds it "morally disgusting". This same woman dealt with a very public trial and the national press reported of her crimes and misdemeanours (http://tinyurl.com/nur5od
).Many of her convictions included acts of public indecency and crimes which positions her in a similar place on the moral compass as these men.

    Although I sympathise with the cruisers I am in no way condoning their behaviour. What makes me angry is that if anyone could sympathise with these men it is her. She did not and has not made a discrete complaint to the local authorities but instead has written a very bigoted and frankly embarrassing letter to the News (local press) which they have published. If you ever get to read this, Julia Pilkington, may I ask if you've ever heard the advice given to those who live in houses made of glass?

    If anything I feel sorry for the men that are cruising, on more than one occasion have I see our Lady procreating on the balcony of our building – those poor men have to watch that whilst bumming in the rock gardens. I implore them to write a complaint.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

Urns and Nightingales

Your whiteness sits

absorbing pigments.

Pages like light wings

perch,

anticipating my quill

(plucked from your dryadic plume)

in your high tree of inspirations.


 

I reach, but my efforts crack

the clay of your leaf-fringed intricacy.

My page,

a bride unravished,

makes contact with the pen:

ever, ever kissing.