Here is a fairly normal Poet-in-Residence haiku:
the bee leaves
the snowdrop
shakes its head
This haiku can be read and understood in many different ways. It has a multitude of meanings. It embodies nature. It is a riddle with no solution. It's fun. And it's quite funny too. And so now to Shakespeare,-
What he himself might his quietus° make
With a bare bodkin°? Who would fardels° bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life
The three words marked ° are interpreted for us in a side-margin of the book from which the text is taken:
exit
small dagger / burdens
And there is our Hamlet haiku; we must only make a minor adjustment and hey presto!,-
exit
small dagger /
burdens
Make of it what you will. It's a haiku from Hamlet that has been around for years; but nobody ever noticed it before. Now you know the trick you may spend a happy hour or two unearthing some Shakespearian haiku of your own. Good luck and do not lose the name of action.
________
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Wild Horses
Here is the final Poet-in-Residence poem selected from several published in Pulsar Poetry Magazine. The other three poems can be found directly below. Wild Horses first saw the light of day in the June 2005 edition (no. 42),-
Wild Horses
Jobless to Rise
is how that evening's paper saw it.
I was leaning over the rail
alongside the Riverside Terminus
contemplating the implications,
the options, the consequences;
and waiting for the bus.
I was drawn from my reverie
by the bracing smell of shower gel.
Close by and curving into me
was a brace of Aphrodisian seahorses.
Those twins were half unzipped
and v-framed in a sky-blue jumpsuit;
caressed with strands of wavy hair
and overlooked by helpless eyes
of the deepest swimming-pool blue.
They solicited only simple directions.
Could I by any chance point out
the most convenient place to worship.
Eager to be of service I told of a huge
emblematic edifice around the corner
with tall spires reaching heavenwards;
reaching up towards the unreachable stars;
a folly in spite of all its appearances;
a cold grey and gloomy construction
with no parish to call its own and
nobody ever going in there; spiders
and rats inhabiting the place.
All the clocks stopped.
The horses squealed and stamped their feet;
shook their proud heads and finally turned
and went away
stomp...stomp...stomping away
with a swish of the tail;
but hopefully not
in the wrong direction.
_______________________
c) 2005 Gwilym Williams
Wild Horses
Jobless to Rise
is how that evening's paper saw it.
I was leaning over the rail
alongside the Riverside Terminus
contemplating the implications,
the options, the consequences;
and waiting for the bus.
I was drawn from my reverie
by the bracing smell of shower gel.
Close by and curving into me
was a brace of Aphrodisian seahorses.
Those twins were half unzipped
and v-framed in a sky-blue jumpsuit;
caressed with strands of wavy hair
and overlooked by helpless eyes
of the deepest swimming-pool blue.
They solicited only simple directions.
Could I by any chance point out
the most convenient place to worship.
Eager to be of service I told of a huge
emblematic edifice around the corner
with tall spires reaching heavenwards;
reaching up towards the unreachable stars;
a folly in spite of all its appearances;
a cold grey and gloomy construction
with no parish to call its own and
nobody ever going in there; spiders
and rats inhabiting the place.
All the clocks stopped.
The horses squealed and stamped their feet;
shook their proud heads and finally turned
and went away
stomp...stomp...stomping away
with a swish of the tail;
but hopefully not
in the wrong direction.
_______________________
c) 2005 Gwilym Williams
Forlorn Point (County Wexford)
Together with the poem Walkin' with Bukowski (below) the poem Forlorn Point (County Wexford) made its debut in Pulsar Poetry no. 44 (December 2005). It was written during a wonderful holiday in Eire in the autumn of 2004. Pulsar editor David Pike, astute as ever, placed the two poems facing each other, on the final double-page of the journal; Bukowski on the left and Wexford on the right.
Forlorn Point (County Wexford)
An oilskinned man
crunches over shells
slithers over seaweed
boot ends a coil of rope
toes over a rag of net
an old scavenger
foraging
in the setting sun.
A cormorant flaps
purposefully sunwards
- an outgoing pterodactyl.
What the man will take
from Forlorn Point
is the echoing note
of the oystercatcher
the gust of wind with salt
in its breath
and the splash of the swell
on the rocks.
_______________________
c) 2004 Gwilym Williams
Forlorn Point (County Wexford)
An oilskinned man
crunches over shells
slithers over seaweed
boot ends a coil of rope
toes over a rag of net
an old scavenger
foraging
in the setting sun.
A cormorant flaps
purposefully sunwards
- an outgoing pterodactyl.
What the man will take
from Forlorn Point
is the echoing note
of the oystercatcher
the gust of wind with salt
in its breath
and the splash of the swell
on the rocks.
_______________________
c) 2004 Gwilym Williams
Walkin' with Bukowski
The following Poet-in-Residence poem first appeared in Pulsar Poetry no. 44 (December 2005) -
Walkin' with Bukowski
I guess that was Buk's last job
honkin' me over
the Harbor Freeway
crossin' me over
by San Remo
his warty eyes blinkin'
in the blindin' steel and gas
crawlin' all day
on the freeway
jammin' up the place
say, you could read a poem to me
from Buk's last book
THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH
you'd like the feel
the acid-free paper...
_______________________________________________________
c- Gwilym Williams 2005
Alludes to the opening poem jam by Charles Bukowski
THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS (Black Sparrow)
Walkin' with Bukowski
I guess that was Buk's last job
honkin' me over
the Harbor Freeway
crossin' me over
by San Remo
his warty eyes blinkin'
in the blindin' steel and gas
crawlin' all day
on the freeway
jammin' up the place
say, you could read a poem to me
from Buk's last book
THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH
you'd like the feel
the acid-free paper...
_______________________________________________________
c- Gwilym Williams 2005
Alludes to the opening poem jam by Charles Bukowski
THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS (Black Sparrow)
Poet-in-Residence's pointless poem
The poem was published in Pulsar Poetry no. 45 (March 2006) in response to a debate about the use of line-breaks in preference to punctuation and to answer the challenge that it is not possible to write a meaningful and coherent poem without using at least some punctuation. After 3 years in the wilderness it's time that Poet-in-Residence's pointless poem had another outing. You will see that the poem contains the symbol ? but of course that's the point of the pointless poem.
pointless poem
this poem will harm nobody
point the finger at nobody
say nothing about nobody
that could be taken the wrong way
or any other way for that matter
this poem will say nothing
controversial or otherwise
about nothing and nobody
this poem will be so bloody
pointless
that you will think
there should be a law against it
or at least a regulation
or a sub-regulation
or the sub-section of a sub-regulation
this poem will not even entertain
one semicolon
what about that then?
cut
_______
gw 2006
pointless poem
this poem will harm nobody
point the finger at nobody
say nothing about nobody
that could be taken the wrong way
or any other way for that matter
this poem will say nothing
controversial or otherwise
about nothing and nobody
this poem will be so bloody
pointless
that you will think
there should be a law against it
or at least a regulation
or a sub-regulation
or the sub-section of a sub-regulation
this poem will not even entertain
one semicolon
what about that then?
cut
_______
gw 2006
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Francesco Petrarch's House in Arqua
Francesco Petrarca, to give him his correct Italian name, was born in Florence, Italy in 1304. From the age of 12 until he was almost 50 he lived mostly in Provence, France. In 1341 he was crowned Poet Laureate in Rome. His humanist works anticipated the Renaissance and his poetic works influenced European writers and major poets such as England's Chaucer.
In a letter to Matteo Longo dated 6th January 1371 Petrarca wrote: In the Euganean Hills I had a small house built, seemly and noble; here I live out the last years of my life peacefully, recalling and embracing with constant memory my absent or deceased friends.
Three-and-a-half years later, during the night of 19th/20th July 1374, the poet fell asleep with his head resting upon his books. He was never to wake.
The village of Arqua is in the Euganean Hills Regional Park, an area of small extinct volcanoes and hot springs. It lies to the south-west of Padua and overlooks the Veneto plain. In early March a walk through the hills will reveal clusters of snowdrops, daffodils, violets, clumps of rosemary and patches of wild garlic among the laurel trees and oaks on the south-facing slopes. The olive groves are at this time of year being cleared of winter debris, the vines are being snipped and tied, and in the ruins of old buildings in the wild brambles the brown lizards are awake. It's an idyllic spot. Truly a spot for a poet like Petrarca.
As summer drifts into being the white water lilies and the yellow-bellied toads will appear in the ponds, the marbled white butterflies will flit amid the downy oaks, the red backed shrikes will shrike (if that's what shrikes do) and the peregrine will zoom below the sweet chestnuts after the mouse running through the monkey orchids. Pure and wonderful nature. Petrarca, in search of peace quiet, wrote that he ran away from the noisy city as if it were a prison.
Today there are no books in the house at Arqua. The bookcase stands idle and empty. The bronze bust of the poet on the shelf has a bullet hole drilled at close range into the top of the forehead. The culprit is said to be an 18thCent. vandal, identity unknown. The true reason is unknown. We can only guess. An anarchist? A drunken soldier? A rival poet? The bust on the impressive marble grave just along the road outside the front door of the village church is but a replacement, a copy.
Above the many times disturbed and stolen bones of the poet (said now to be elsewhere) the large black bell in the angled shadow at the top of the brick tower clangs out the noontime hour which vibrates and echoes through the still air and sends a flurry of pigeons briefly skywards.
By chance the following quotation, which might well apply to Petrarca, was found on a chocolate wrapper at a picnic spot on the hill overlooking Arqua -
the heart has its reasons
which reason does not know
Poet-in-Residence considers the fact that Petrarca's study faced into a garden as he dwells on the mind of the visionary poet who advises us to: standomi un giorno solo a la fenestra (Canzoniere 323 of Canzone delle visioni). It would appear that Petrarca died exactly as he would have wished. The Euganean Hills Regional Park is a wonderful garden. And the house of the Poet of Arqua is at the heart of it.
In a letter to Matteo Longo dated 6th January 1371 Petrarca wrote: In the Euganean Hills I had a small house built, seemly and noble; here I live out the last years of my life peacefully, recalling and embracing with constant memory my absent or deceased friends.
Three-and-a-half years later, during the night of 19th/20th July 1374, the poet fell asleep with his head resting upon his books. He was never to wake.
The village of Arqua is in the Euganean Hills Regional Park, an area of small extinct volcanoes and hot springs. It lies to the south-west of Padua and overlooks the Veneto plain. In early March a walk through the hills will reveal clusters of snowdrops, daffodils, violets, clumps of rosemary and patches of wild garlic among the laurel trees and oaks on the south-facing slopes. The olive groves are at this time of year being cleared of winter debris, the vines are being snipped and tied, and in the ruins of old buildings in the wild brambles the brown lizards are awake. It's an idyllic spot. Truly a spot for a poet like Petrarca.
As summer drifts into being the white water lilies and the yellow-bellied toads will appear in the ponds, the marbled white butterflies will flit amid the downy oaks, the red backed shrikes will shrike (if that's what shrikes do) and the peregrine will zoom below the sweet chestnuts after the mouse running through the monkey orchids. Pure and wonderful nature. Petrarca, in search of peace quiet, wrote that he ran away from the noisy city as if it were a prison.
Today there are no books in the house at Arqua. The bookcase stands idle and empty. The bronze bust of the poet on the shelf has a bullet hole drilled at close range into the top of the forehead. The culprit is said to be an 18thCent. vandal, identity unknown. The true reason is unknown. We can only guess. An anarchist? A drunken soldier? A rival poet? The bust on the impressive marble grave just along the road outside the front door of the village church is but a replacement, a copy.
Above the many times disturbed and stolen bones of the poet (said now to be elsewhere) the large black bell in the angled shadow at the top of the brick tower clangs out the noontime hour which vibrates and echoes through the still air and sends a flurry of pigeons briefly skywards.
By chance the following quotation, which might well apply to Petrarca, was found on a chocolate wrapper at a picnic spot on the hill overlooking Arqua -
the heart has its reasons
which reason does not know
Poet-in-Residence considers the fact that Petrarca's study faced into a garden as he dwells on the mind of the visionary poet who advises us to: standomi un giorno solo a la fenestra (Canzoniere 323 of Canzone delle visioni). It would appear that Petrarca died exactly as he would have wished. The Euganean Hills Regional Park is a wonderful garden. And the house of the Poet of Arqua is at the heart of it.
Poetry Kit Recommended Site Award
The happy purchase of my glorious spoile,
gotten at last with labour and long toyle.
- Edmund Spenser
Poet-in-Residence has been awarded the Poetry Kit Recommended Site Award.
The success, if one dare call it that, of Poet-in-Residence is due in no small measure to the many readers old and new visiting and revisiting, and commenting on these pages on a regular and irregular basis, broadcasting a few poetic seeds, rather like Van Gogh's sower in the various comments boxes, thereby keeping the ground productive and the poetry ploughman up to his job. Many thanks to you all.
Poet-in-Residence aims to be the poetry magazine you will wish to find in the infernal waiting room. Pick it up, flick open at almost any page and there you will almost certainly find something worth reading. A short item, a longer one, an in-depth piece over several pages; so more than something simply to pass time as it were, although it is that as well.
There are to date approximately 400 pages in the Poet-in-Residence poetry book. It strives to be a place where poets who write and also those who enjoy reading poetry can both feel at home. Residence is the poetic name of the planet on which we all live.
gotten at last with labour and long toyle.
- Edmund Spenser
Poet-in-Residence has been awarded the Poetry Kit Recommended Site Award.
The success, if one dare call it that, of Poet-in-Residence is due in no small measure to the many readers old and new visiting and revisiting, and commenting on these pages on a regular and irregular basis, broadcasting a few poetic seeds, rather like Van Gogh's sower in the various comments boxes, thereby keeping the ground productive and the poetry ploughman up to his job. Many thanks to you all.
Poet-in-Residence aims to be the poetry magazine you will wish to find in the infernal waiting room. Pick it up, flick open at almost any page and there you will almost certainly find something worth reading. A short item, a longer one, an in-depth piece over several pages; so more than something simply to pass time as it were, although it is that as well.
There are to date approximately 400 pages in the Poet-in-Residence poetry book. It strives to be a place where poets who write and also those who enjoy reading poetry can both feel at home. Residence is the poetic name of the planet on which we all live.
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