I used to be Rubbish at Poetry

 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 2^nd 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…