Well Versed Poetry

2007-11-18T05:19:00.000-08:00

Echo and Narcissus

Reading Norman Mailer on Picasso yesterday, his musing on the true nature of narcissism reminded me of this poem I wrote a couple of years ago.

Beyond the mirrored surfaces: the trees
tie the earth together with the sky,
their feet in clay. Their tortured arms upreach,
their torsos stretched to breaking by the strain.

Around the fringes, daffodils pretend
to pour narcissi onwards without end,

while on the water, blasted branches rain,
and seek the rippled sky, and try to teach,
as flustered clouds go rolling ever by,
that half the world's an echo on the breeze.

Roy

2007-08-30T09:30:00.000-07:00

Lovestruck Romeo

If WB Yeats
Wrote songs for Dire Straits
He probably wouldn't write this…

I called from beneath her window;
from the pavement before her door.
In her garden I felt the wind blow
autumnal and chilly, but more:

it carried her voice away, as
she called from her bedroom high.
It carried her pleas to stay as
though they were but a sigh...

And though I could see her speaking
and her anguish was plain to see,
the sound of the ash tree's creaking
hid all other sounds from me.

So all of her words she sent me
and all of my heartfelt cries
were dust. 'Twas as though she meant me
to leave -as a dry leaf flies.

Roy

2007-06-10T09:59:00.001-07:00

I haven't written much poetry lately, but I'm announcing something of a:

Regime Change

For many months no sonnet dared complain,
nor even raise its head. A new regime
had come to power, threatening to reign
a thousand days of reason. So extreme,
some sonnets ended things to end the pain,
'ashamed of their unreason', it was said.
Looking back, it's tricky to explain:
how horrible they felt less awful dead!

The thousand day regime was quick to wane.
'Thank God the world has changed', our uncle said,
'a sonnet can live freely once again,
without the world comes down around his head.'

It could have lasted longer: in the main
regimes that listen, last. But you explain.

Roy

2007-04-26T05:28:00.000-07:00

Hearing the glorious sounds of blackbirds this morning reminded me of a poem I wrote almost a year ago on a similarly lovely morning:

The Blackbird Doesn't Know His Song

The blackbird doesn't know his song
is filled with music, just that he
is bursting with it, may explode -
unless he vents his urgency.

The brown bird though, may know her mate
is singing for a chance to breed;
to generate, not celebrate:
a symphony that sings of need.

Soon, cocooned, their young lie still,
but yet they hear their lullaby,
and learn of all the songs they'll spill
upon us - idle passers-by.

Roy

2007-04-07T13:22:00.000-07:00

Poetry on the Fly - I wrote this directly onto this blog immediately after reading a review of Tony Harrison's latest collections, Collected Poems and Collected Film Poetry in today's Times Books supplement.

A rhyming poem seemed so caught
to poets with their freer hearts
who needed space to lay their thoughts
away from rhyming's stops and starts.

But rhyme can help a poet find,
as Tony Harrison remarked,
the undercurrent of the mind,
the path on which we'd once embarked.

The fact remains that rhyming's place
is safe, while thought takes effort still:
We're likelier to win the race
when running faster down the hill.

Roy

2007-03-20T06:32:00.000-07:00

This is another oldie. You may recognise the references in the first couple of verses - thereafter it goes its own way. I'm still not satisfied with this one after many attempted re-writes, but reflecting on it now, maybe it's not so bad... Still, comments, suggestions and questions are welcome.

Storms and Wrecks:

If all our fires were fuelled by wrecks,
each shattered vessel would provide
a blaze, and all the splintered decks
would warm our shivered selves inside.

But this is not the way of things:
The wrecks bring wetted wood ashore,
and shattered hopes and drowning dreams,
so I shall welcome storms no more.

You slipped this port some time ago
and sailed a hopeful course to sea,
but though I see you founder - no,
I shall not call you home to me...

as sirens drew men to the reef,
unfeeling as they lost their all.
No, I'll not prosper from your grief,
but whisper, and I'll hear your call.

So, weep your storm or cry to me -
this port's not inundated yet.
Though you are never weak to me,
remember - I will not forget:

When storms would shatter you and all
your timbers on the angry sea,
you still shall hear this welcome call:
Your shelter I would always be.

Roy

2007-03-10T09:56:00.000-08:00

I won't even pretend this is good poetry, but the message is valid:

Leap

A man with perfect pitch who will not sing and doesn't play;
a woman of great beauty who will hide herself away;
another woman blessed with brains who sets her sights too low -
so many unfulfilling lives, but how are we to know?

Unless we spread our wings and try to leap from where we are
we'll never know if we can fly, or if we can, how far.
Unless we test the limits of our courage and our art
we all live little lowly lives, and lose before we start.

Roy

2007-03-04T05:02:00.000-08:00

Stephen Fry

Just a silly rhyme...

When I'm tired, I'm dull and dim;
when wide awake I'm witty,
but never am as bright as him -
by lightyears, more's the pity.

Roy

2007-02-22T18:15:00.000-08:00

This one I've just written in response to a recent painting by the artist on 'Boules de Neige'. You can see the picture on her blog at www.scrambolo.blogspot.com.

I suspect I've taken a rather sideways look at the picture. But who knows what's actually in an artist's mind, even less so than in a poet's?

Crimson Space

What's holding back the crimson space?
A shell of real, façade of fake?
An unreal girl half turns her face
and hears the sound her friend would make

if he were not himself a prop.
While gravity pretends to hold,
beyond the stage the endless drop
of nothing as the truth unfolds.

And that holds back the crimson space
that only artists could create.
The really empty world we'd face
is black as unimagined fate.

Roy

2007-02-18T18:49:00.000-08:00

Another from about a year ago. Something had set me musing on the idea that creativity takes place at the intersection, or slight overlapping, of the conscious and non-conscious minds, as though at times there is a gentle ebb and flow between the two, like a lake lapping its shore (and vice-versa).

Mere Abstraction

Our dreams are mere abstraction;
re-created mood made real
by involuntary actions of creationistic zeal.

We make legends when we're resting,
turn reality to suit every feeling we're attesting:
every mood must have its root.

But the sources of these stories
are mere flickers in the brain;
chemically created glories -

Don Quixote conquered Spain in a swarm of self-deceptions,
we'd do well to be aware.

Yet our sleeping brain's perceptions
may relate what's hidden there -

Though our dreams are mere abstraction,
re-created mood made real,
at the point of interaction lies the life those dreams reveal.

Roy

2007-02-12T13:20:00.000-08:00

A Poem for Valentines Day.

This is one I wrote a year ago. It's a personal poem, but I hope it's sufficiently universal for you to enjoy as well.

This Love

This love is far more complex than a rhyme
or even than a poem: though I try
explaining what it is from time to time
I cannot, and I cannot tell you why.

This love is something greater than I know:
I only know compulsion from within
that made me stay when you would have me go;
that wouldn't have an end, that bade 'Begin'.

This love affair is everything and nought
will ever come between this man and you.
If anything's contagious, we are caught,
the fever more malarious than 'flu...

This love outlasts a Valentine, my love;
outlives a thousand festivals and more.
It rides upon the wing-beats of a dove
who never knew eternity before.

Roy

2007-02-06T16:48:00.000-08:00

Here's one I hardly remember writing, even though it was only a little over a year ago (last January). It has a hymnal quality that was commented on at the time, and some incongruous language, perhaps, but I post it here unedited.

Awesomely, Awfully (tears of old oceans)

Awesomely, awfully, runs the sun over us
so ever-onwardly turns the green Earth
quite unforgettably, always oviparous,
carries the oceans, the place of our birth,
carries the mountains and skies tall and wondrous,
rolls ever under our mass at her girth.

Now we refer to the future: projecting it
carries a warning - illusions are dumb.
Earth can't survive 'less the species protecting it
sees her diseases both painful and numb.
Cannot revive if the testers inspecting it
stand unaware of how she may succumb.

Wake to the warning and hearten heroically:
carry the fight by the light of the flame.
See how she bears her mistreatment so stoically,
only occasionally fixing her aim...
Yet she is wounded and weeping - ironically
tears of old oceans from whence we all came.

Roy

2007-01-30T12:09:00.000-08:00

Bob Dylan - A Friend of Mine

As promised, the first specially commissioned article on Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan - A Friend of Mine, is now available via my articles index. Or you can go directly to Dylan here.

Roy

2007-01-29T18:08:00.000-08:00

Unashamedly romantic, this one - written the day my now wife first told me she loved me.

Undying Love:

I pondered on undying love -
a foolish thing to ponder on,
since we are not immortal, nor
can know what's left when we are gone.

So pondered on immortal life
and such impossibilities:
We may be made immortal by
our talents and abilities.

And then remarked, in idle chat,
while dreaming of us, hand in glove,
your talents may be manifold -
your greatest is undying love.

Roy

2007-01-25T10:48:00.001-08:00

A Country Road - David Hockney vs Edna O'Brien

Last November I came across an article about David Hockney's recent paintings, one week after an article about Edna O'Brien's latest novel. The image of this poem comes from a Hockney painting, the first line is taken from O'Brien's novel.

"A country road, tarred very blue"
the writer said, and I believed,
for had I not last week conceived
a country road like that? When you

can think about the tarmac lane
in terms of colours it won't hold:
the greens of summer leaves, the gold,
the yellow flowers, what remains?

The sky, its saturated height,
which spills and stains this artist's eye,
so even darkened lanes that lie
in shadow splash the bluest light.

Roy

2007-01-22T03:11:00.000-08:00

Poet in Slightly Insulting Poem Shock! (Robert Crampton Unlikely to Sue...)

Now the weather has finally turned more seasonal, I've decided to hark back to last year's long, long summer by repeating a mildly insulting poem I sent to Robert Crampton of The Times last September. Controversial or what?

Dear Robert, Cap'n Bob or whatever,

Trapped in the cathedral garden by a procession of churchmen whose long costumes suggested a propensity for embarassment over their ankles, let alone knees, I did feel somewhat underdressed on Saturday. Still, I brazened it out and the new Dean presumably didn't recognise me fully dressed at the reception on Sunday.

Or he was too polite to mention it.

Still, I'm with you Bob:

A gentle breeze around the knees
must surely guard against disease?
though colder winds the autumn sends
may chill a person's odds and ends,
there's something in the playful way
you wear your short pants every day -
so resolute, determined to
avoid the longer trousers, you
rebellious free spirit! But
I wonder if it's more than that -
analogous, perhaps in truth,
to clinging to your fading youth?

But on this Bob, I'm there with you -
I wear mine 'til October, too.

Roy

2007-01-20T10:29:00.000-08:00

More Free Well Versed Articles

I've uploaded some more articles onto my Well Versed main site today. You'll find them at www.wellversed.co.uk/articles.html

As promised, I've covered money-saving (and life-saving) car maintenance, some brief advice on writing for business and two book reviews, including Duncan Bannatyne's fascinating biography, 'Anyone Can Do It.' Read it and believe!

There's lots more to come from Well Versed in due course, particularly on the subjects of business and business writing, and I'll keep you informed about that and other developments right here.

Roy Everitt, writing for results

2007-01-18T16:04:00.000-08:00

I used to love watching my son playing football, even when his team mostly lost. There was something about the endeavour that I found admirable. Now the feeling is more nostalgic!

On Seeing Small Boys Playing

Interesting, I best recall
the frantic failings when,
chasing the indifferent ball,
you lost again.

Less successes, if at all,
although we shared it then.
By then the game began to pall,
played by nearly-men.

I saw you there
and thought to call.
I looked
and thought again.

Roy

2007-01-16T00:58:00.000-08:00

Endangered Wolves to Wheelchair Appeals

The latest addition to the Well Versed family was born yesterday, when I uploaded the first ten articles from my archives onto www.wellversed.co.uk/articles.htmlThere will be more to follow in the next few days, but already the subjects range from rare Ethiopean wolves to an audacious appeal to mobilise the world's disabled, from selling your home to marketing yourself, and include both running and revealing my age.

Subjects to come include business writing and car maintenance...

Enjoy reading, and feel free to reproduce them (subject to the usual conditions).

Roy

2007-01-10T14:41:00.000-08:00

This could hardly be less Dylanesque, but it's a favourite oldie of mine; a pure fantasy with obvious Shakespeare references. But I think I also recognise a very weak echo of TS Eliot, of which I was only vaguely conscious at the time. I suspect he would not have approved!

Walk With Me:

Then come to woods and meadows green
or white - this is a winter scene.
To Arden forest, ardent heart,
Wil. Shakespeare then could play a part...

In Warwickshire's great forest then,
we will go walking once again,
and there upon the frosty bough
spy mistletoe - of that I vow.

So let us go on this fine morn
to where the mistletoe is borne,
upon the broad crab apple tree
that carries it so easily,

and chance upon midwinter scene
from long ago, with nought between
but winter tales and stories told,
of mysteries and maidens bold.

For in those days of long ago,
all then believed the mistletoe
would capture he who kissed her then,
and never to depart again.

Now little mistletoe is found
the human heart is not so bound.
Forever is a foreign word;
fidelity so rarely heard.

Still, I and you will better do:
were I to pledge my heart to you,
and you to pledge your own to me -
this pair might share eternity.

Roy

2007-01-08T12:18:00.000-08:00

Bob Dylan - The Songwriter/Poet

Most of those of us who like to call ourselves poets and lyricists also have an appreciation of the masters and mistresses of verse who make it all look so easy. To compare ouselves with them is probably a mistake, but to take the opportunity to study, admire, and especially enjoy their work is another thing entirely.

You may have already visited my Beatles directory and now I've added a directory for Dylan fans far and wide. There, you'll find links to all the Bob Dylan information and resources the most avid fan could wish for.

Click here or on the link to the left for Bob and all his works.

2007-01-04T02:41:00.000-08:00

Poetry and Art

Here's a poem I wrote a couple of months ago, inspired by the imaginative paintings of Jaimie Wolf, a very talented artist with her own blog. As you will see, this one came out as a sonnet.

Imagine the picture, if you can: a zebra entering a strange, hi-tech city, perhaps looking for a way to feed her children, perhaps a pioneer... Or, better still, visit Jaimie's blog.

You'll find several more of my poems there, amongst the comments.

Sacrifice

This city had no mayor 'til you came,
all broken-down with colours at your back,
so now there's no concession with your aim -
you cannot give the robes of office back.

Your foals will wait behind as you advance
across the glassy path devoid of gold.
You keep your eyes averted lest a glance
avow to you the story you were told -

these colours are for others, not for you,
the quite unbanded species. Whereas they
are here to do whatever they will do
that's all unknown to you until today,

and shall remain unknowable, my mare -
fair cities can be anything but fair.

Roy

2006-12-29T11:53:00.001-08:00

Beatles For Sale

I must have registered on some subliminal level the news of a new Beatles album, titled 'Love.' Anyway, needless to say, I made a point this week of watching the BBC1 documentary 'Imagine,' about the re-making of classic Beatles tracks by their legendary producer George Martin.

Almost as impressive as the aural feast Mr Martin and son have created were the glimpses we were given of the show that Circe du Soleil have created to accompany it. The show looked magnificent, and the sound track sounded wonderful. They've even uncovered recordings of the Fab Four chatting between takes. Digitally remastered, John Lennon and George Harrison once again sound every bit as alive as Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr.

Erie, but unmissable for Beatles fans worldwide. Since I wasn't given the album for Christmas, I'll just have to buy it for myself - that and a trip to see the show, as soon as possible.

Check out the Well Versed Beatles website for the latest and best information on the Fab Four, which is updated every few days.

2006-12-21T00:21:00.000-08:00

Meet The Beatles

Speaking of the Beatles, as you may recall I was recently, the Fab Four have been a big part of many people's lives - mine included.

So, I'm especially pleased to have put together a brand new Beatles Directory. The latest addition to the Well Versed stable is available here, or by clicking on the link to the left.

Enjoy!

Roy

2006-12-19T16:36:00.000-08:00

Poem of the Day, the Month, the Year - (I met my wife two years ago today)

An Angel at Christmas

I tell myself that angels' mere existence,
and anything that smacks of heaven-sent,
must overcome some pretty fierce resistance
if I'm to be convinced - although I went
some way towards a hope to be persuaded
when times were hard, and hope was all I had
(or so I thought). But hope was not upgraded
to confidence - I never was that mad.

But two years after meeting you, the dream
I never knew but always dreamed to share,
is coming true, and now I sense the cream
just out of sight is definitely there.

But could it be ambrosia, and might
the dreams we look to live be something more
than fantasies our minds create at night -
might they be what we were created for?

I met you at The Angel, and the date
two years ago - the twentieth - I'd say,
owed more to my persistence than to fate.
But still, I have to wonder, anyway.

Roy