Writing Poetry

 

I tried to be like other poets.

I tried to do it the mainstream way.

I tried to write the perfect poem.

I remembered all the poems they taught in school.

The sonnets.

The odes.

The epics.

And formatted my poems around them.

I read the classics, the ones loved by teachers.

Academics.

And just the public in general.

The greats:

1. Marvel.

2. Milton.

3. Motion.

4. Shakespeare.

5. Wordsworth.

I studied and admired them all.

But what is found in a good poem?

Exactly.

I took up rhyming.

                Rhyming.

I researched all the poetic techniques.

Similies. Metaphors. Personification.

I just d

            u

                m

                       p

                            e

                                d

                                        t

                                            h

                                                e

                                                     m

                                                            a

                                                                 l

                                                                       l

                                                                                i

                                                                                    n.

Not a single one

                                                                                    left out.

I wrote about:

Nighttime.

                    Flowers.

                                    Stormy weather.

                    Romance.

Inner turmoil.

                       Great battles.

                                                The sea.

Anything any great sensitive poet spouts lyrical about.

It was great poetry, right?

It was what I was taught to do, right?

But everytime I wrote a poem,

it just felt boring.

Stale.

Forced.

And just flat-out cliché.

And soon, I discovered that being a sensitive poet just wasn't for me.

I need to do something different.

Something unique.

Something that suited my own tastes.

I've given up now.

If I want to write poetry, I'll do it

MY                  OWN

            WAY.

Rose - A Visual Poem

Recipe On How To Write Every Day

The recipe of writing every day is simple.

All you need is:

One cup of visualisation.

Ten teaspoons of wordplay.

Twelve tablespoons of freewriting.

Something to write with. A pen or pencil or keyboard will do.

What you need to do?

Mix well and put on to heat for ten minutes. Once cooked, scrape any remaining writer's block off and serve instantly.

Belle-mere - A Visual Poem

Dead.

Nothing poetic about that.

Lying there on the ground,

Sprawled out,

Eyes open.

Not much of a funeral either.

Not enough money, y'know.

Just

found a casket,

Slipped her into it.

Buried it underground.

Marked the gravestone.

Scattered petals onto it.

That was it. Rest in peace.

I was the only one at this “funeral”, if you couldn't tell.

Not very conventional.

But then again, Mama was never the conventional type herself.

She never took shit from anyone.

More

like

a punk if you

will with her

tough attitude

and Mohawk.

But that was what I loved about her,

And I guess I've taken after her too.

I cried for days after Mama died.

Don't you dare laugh.

I'm not exaggerating.

It would be full-on sniffling and sobbing in the morning

(which I'd try to stifle with a beer or two).

And just when it seemed all over,

I'd start again some hours later.

Mum?                Mum?

C                        C

o                        o

m                       m

e                         e

b                         b

a                         a

c                         c

k                        k

!                        !

*sob*

                                                                                My

                                                                                                     face

                                                                   would

                                                                                                be

                                                                                    all

                                                        blotchy

                                                                                                                        and

                                                                                    snotty

                                                            from

                                                                                                    the

                                                                            tears.

At least there was the dog to cuddle up to and have them licked away.

They say grief ain't the type to last forever.

They're right.

I tend to get on fine most days.

I joke around with the others.

I do the stuff I like to do.

It doesn't take much to make me laugh.

        now and some trigger gets pulled.

    every     then,

But

'Cause I guess Mama was the one person that really understood me.