Here I present a poem I wrote & that was published in the Karina Nielsen's wonderful magazine Vomit In The Mainstream :
PEACE
© Photographer:Robert Taylor | Agency: Dreamstime.com
Now is the time to think of Peace,
We must, Peace that falls on us like a blanket of dust,
Left by a bomb-blasted building, scattered with souls,
On tainted blood soaked soil, whose cries are ignored
By gunfire and the smell of oil.
Now is the time to think of Peace,
That will silence the streets, of miss-educated heads with no home,
Who think they’re alone..... and poor, who fire guns at innocents,
Whilst playing territorial tug of war.
Now is the time to think of Peace
Where demented Power fired up by greed
And Poverty pretends there are too many mouths to feed,
Where diamonds are stolen and families never to be seen,
As rich ringed fingers gush and preen.
Now is the time to think of Peace
Where Religion shows it’s many faces
Where it claims to own its many places, but will refuse the entry,
And make separation of many races.
Now is the time to think of Peace
Where Women are passed around like pawns
Enslaved behind walls, in a city that ignores their
Confused calls.
Now is the time to think of Peace.
Part 2 of Poetry Hour has two of my favourite poems. Both using lively imagery, effective repetition and metaphors. Text using a short two line stanza and regular rhyme pattern showing brilliantly the dangers of texting (sexting?) and the amount of emotion that can be invested in one text. Evidence of being a fan of Shakespeare with Hour being in the form of a traditional 14 line Love Sonnet, with a regular rhyme scheme, but using modern language & making it more accessible. from one of my favourite contemporary female poets - who happens to be the current Poet Laureate as of 2009; Carol Ann Duffy Both poems taken from Duffy's most recent collection of adult poetry Rapture, which won the 2005 T. S Eliot Prize.
TEXT
© Photographer:Michal Lesniak | Agency: Dreamstime.com
I tend the mobile now
like an injured bird.
We text, text, text
our significant words.
I re-read your first
your second, your third,
look for your small xx
feeling absurd.
The codes we send
arrive with a broken chord.
I try to picture your hands,
their image blurred.
Nothing my thumbs press
will ever be heard.
 |
| Photographer: JAIRO BD |
HOUR
Love's time's beggar, but even a single hour,
bright as a dropped coin, makes love rich.
We find an hour together, spend it not on flowers
or wine, but the whole of the summer sky and a grass ditch.
For thousands of seconds we kiss; your hair
like treasure on the ground; the Midas light
turning your limbs to gold. Time slows. for here
we are millionaires, backhanding the night
so nothing dark will end our shinning hour,
no jewel hold a candle to the cuckoo spit
hung from the blade of grass at your ear,
no chandelier or spotlight see you better lit
than here. Now. Time hates love, wants love poor,
but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.
