For most of us, our first experience of poetry will be
nursery rhymes although we will not realise that they are poems at the time.
Our next experience will be at school when in English we have to learn a poem
and probably recite it from memory and that will be a turn-off because we do
not like learning things parrot fashion and we certainly don’t like standing up
in front of our mates and make a fool of ourselves, and what’s the point, the
words don’t make any sense anyway.
These early experiences colour our view of poetry as
something a bit like art, it’s for posh people really. You don’t like poetry
because you don’t understand it, right? If there is nothing in it for you why
should you try to understand it? If you are going to enjoy something you don’t
expect to have to try and understand it. After all, you can listen to a song and
enjoy it without having to understand it! And that is a poem put to music. Most
of us will come across a poem at some time in our life that does mean something
to us, for example In Flanders Field
by John McCrea
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields
John McCrea 2nd May 1915
The inspiration for “In Flanders
Fields” came during the early days of the Second Battle of Ypres, a young
Canadian artillery officer, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed on 2nd May
1915, in the gun positions near Ypres. An exploding German artillery shell
landed near him. He was serving in the same Canadian artillery unit as a friend
of his, the Canadian military doctor and artillery commander Major John McCrae.
As the brigade doctor, John McCrae was asked to conduct the burial service for
Alexis because the chaplain had been called away somewhere else on duty that
evening. It is believed that later that evening, after the burial, John began
the draft for his now famous poem “In Flanders Fields”.
I defy anyone to read the words of that poem and not be
moved. But just like other art forms painting or drawing there are different
styles many of which are very personal and many do not appeal to a wide
audience. But that is no reason to dismiss poetry as something you don’t
understand or something that is too complicated, something many of us are all
guilty of, I suspect.
I do not understand all types of poetry, just like I
don’t really get modern jazz or why anyone would want to become a punk or a
goth. For that reason, I ignored it as an art form for most of my life, until I
discovered a book of poetry called, Verse
and Worse by Arnold Silcock. Sadly I can not remember exactly when It
came to my attention, about the time I left school I think. It is a collection
of light-hearted poetry amongst which are the few poems I have even committed to memory, mainly, I suspect, because they are vaguely rude. The
first was:-
THE BLEEDIN'
SPARRER
by Anon
We ‘ad a bleedin’ sparrer wot
Lived up a bleedin’ spaht
One day the bleedin’ rain came dahn
An’ washed the bleeder aht.
An’ as 'e layed ‘arf drahnded
Dahn in the bleedin’ street
‘E begged that bleedin’ rainstorm
To bave ‘is bleedin’ feet.
But then the bleedin’ sun came aht
Dried up the bleedin’ rain
So that bleedin’ little sparrer
‘E climbs up ‘is spaht again.
But, Oh! - the cruel sparrer ‘awk
‘E spies ‘im in ‘is snuggery
‘E sharpens up ‘is bleedin’ claws
An’ rips ‘im aht by thuggery.
Jist then a bleedin’ sportin’ type
Wot ‘ad a bleedin’ gun
‘E spots that bleedin’ sparrer ‘awk
An’ blasts ‘is bleedin’ fun.
The moral of the story
Is plain to everyone...
That them wot’s up the bleedin’ spaht
Don’t get no bleedin’ fun.
You can imagine why that stuck in my consciousness.
Another was:-
Bloody Orkney
By Hamish Blair
This bloody town's a bloody cuss
No bloody trains, no bloody bus,
And no one cares for bloody us
In bloody Orkney.
The bloody roads are bloody bad,
The bloody folks are bloody mad,
They'd make the brightest bloody sad,
In bloody Orkney.
All bloody clouds, and bloody rains,
No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains,
The Council's got no bloody brains,
In bloody Orkney.
Everything's so bloody dear,
A bloody bob, for bloody beer,
And is it good? - no bloody fear,
In bloody Orkney.
The bloody 'flicks' are bloody old,
The bloody seats are bloody cold,
You can't get in for bloody gold
In bloody Orkney.
The bloody dances make you smile,
The bloody band is bloody vile,
It only cramps your bloody style,
In bloody Orkney.
No bloody sport, no bloody games,
No bloody fun, the bloody dames
Won't even give their bloody names
In bloody Orkney.
Best bloody place is bloody bed,
With bloody ice on bloody head,
You might as well be bloody dead,
In bloody Orkney
Again not difficult to see why those words stuck in my
mind.
My girlfriend, now my wife, sent me poems when I was laid
up in bed for 10 weeks. They were really sweet and meant so much to me but for
the life of me, I could not write one back, no matter how hard I tried. But
eventually many years later, when I was about 65 to be precise, a poem came to me from nowhere. Driving along in the car thinking about
the place we used to go on holiday as kids, the sort of thing you do as you get
old, it is called nostalgia, a poem started to form in my head. I could hear
the words; they were describing the walk we used to take to the beach or the
shore, as we called it in Scotland when I was a child. I could not wait to get
out of the car to scribble the words down. I went for a coffee and scribbled in
my notebook; before I knew it I had written my first poem.
Walk to the Shore
by Alistair J
Parker
Cross the neat grass
Lift the latch
Hear the squeak
Rattle the chain
Think of a harness
Back on the hook
Make sure it’s closed
Mind the cow pat
Follow the dyke
A wiggly path
Winds down the hill
This way and that
Spot the odd rabbit
There used to be more
Hear the sweet singing
What did it say
Bread with no cheese repeats all the day
Yellow and noisy it hammers a song
One step more, keep going along
Notice the orchids
Notice some more
The little brown berries
In piles everywhere
Left by the bunnies
Left everywhere
Look there’s a burrow
Deep down in the ground
Home for a rabbit
Home in the ground
Taste the blackberries
All warm lush and round
Sun always shining
It shines every day
Over the stile now
Sweet smell of grass
It’s still early morning
Best time of the day
There is the sea
We’re nearly there
Through the rough grass
Mind the gorse spikes
Sloes in abundance
Lovely with gin
See the sand, closer now
The smell of the sea
The sound of the waves
Clack through the pebbles
All tumbling down
Look for the white ones
Look that’s one there
Feel the sand crunchy
On feet that are bare
Look it's Man Friday
A footprint is there
Hear the waves crashing
Up onto the rocks
Skim the stones seaward
Bounce off the waves
Hear the shrill call
The birds of the sea
A Sea Pie is calling
Plaintive and haunting
Memories flow
This magical place
I once loved to go
I feel a tear forming
The memory is dear
Seems a long time
Since I have walked there
There are a number of lessons to learn from this
experience, firstly, you never know when the poetry bug will bit, If I can
write a poem anyone can and there are no rules, well there are but you should
not let not knowing them put you off. I have purposely not become involved in
the rules of poetry much like I have avoided the rules of painting because I
don’t want them to get in the way at the moment.
What you need to get you going is permission; you give
yourself permission and maybe a few hints on how to get started if you really
have no idea how to get started. My first tip would be to do as I did, visualise
something you are very familiar with as a progression, get up in the
morning, go to work, and write down a list of keywords that arise from the
journey, and you have the makings of a poem…
Wake up,
open eyes,
yawn,
cough,
yawn again,
pull back the duvet,
sit up,
swing your legs out,
take a first step,
open the curtain,
and yawn.
Now add a few words and slightly rearrange.
Morning
I wake up
Open my eyes
Yawn, cough
And yawn again
Pull back the duvet
Sit up with a stretch
Swing out my legs
Take the first step
Open the curtain
And yawn.
You see what I mean; now you have a poem, you’re a poet
in no time…
Remember, there are rules, but don't let that put you off, mistakes
are the source of inspiration and exciting discoveries. Plenty of time to learn the rules but only if you want to. Get writing…
