Poetry By
Jacqui Pack
Published on: 11/11/2013
Versification
I wish that I could make disloyal words perform My bidding. When I put them into verse I never find the terms I need. Instead, I build up, piece by piece, Some rhythmic prose, with no real worth (Other than as a metaphor for madness.) This decline, slow and wretched, into madness Began while I was still at school. In Form 2B I'd chew my pen and strive to prove my worth. My quest to find poetic words for verse Denied my fledgling mind a moment's peace. I turned to a thesaurus in my hour of need And substituted crave or yearn to stand for need. Derangement and insanity replaced my prior madness. I sensed the jigsaw taking shape, piece by tiny piece. And gradually, my friend, I made those words conform. They toed the line! My prosody, its origins diverse, Had a renaissance. Thus Roget's toil evinced its worth. I had at my disposal words that Wordsworth Never dreamed of—far more than I could ever use (or need). Alas, entombed within my sonnets, villanelles and comic verse I realised I had swapped my youthful madness For an obsession with Sudoku, in the form Of syllables. The harsh truth was revealed. I had no peace. So, how did I attain the lasting peace Which I sought after? For what it's worth I'll tell you how, and why. But firstly, I'll inform You of precisely what you'll need If you're to curb the march of madness, And force its monstrous army to reverse. When William Shakespeare wrote heroic verse, He insisted on the right to work in peace. To write without sweet solitude is madness. So cogitate, don't ever rush, it's worth Taking the time to play; to knead Your stanza's content, and reflect it within form. Though perfect verse is surely worth The time spent on each piece, true genius may need To vie with madness in some form.
Published on: 11/8/2013
Mother Goose
Cinders has glass slippers To remind her of the ball. Puss, when he's relaxing, Leaves his boots out in the hall. Red ballet shoes compel you To dance through night and day And the giant who wears ten-league boots Lives very far away. Clown shoes are labelled left and right To save from any muddles, And William wears Wish Wellingtons To keep him safe from puddles. Your world is full of fairytales Of dragon slaying kings And one day, when your time has come, You'll do enchanted things. But in your first shoes walk with me And tightly hold my hand And know that I'll be always here Whatever life has planned.
Published on: 10/2/2013
True Love
The truth of love is held within the eyes, Not of the young, in passion's first embrace; Electric sparks that jolt the heart; the chase That ends in tumbled sheets and carnal sighs; Not summer days, spent chasing butterflies And gazing at a lover's perfect face At rest, against a grassy pillowcase; Nor in the angst of bittersweet goodbyes. The truth of love is captured in the tender Tears she sheds on days he can't recall a Face, or why she's come, or if they've met before. And when he falls asleep, she will pretend their Life's not lost—but vows to honour, love, obey, Which bind her tight, can't hold him anymore.
Published on: 9/30/2013
Martyr
The men bound the ropes to the rocks while the church bells were rung sending ripples of sound drifting over the waves which each swell forces higher, to dissolve into shingle. Will it still be worthwhile when cold sea slaps your chest and drags down on your legs? When the water creeps upwards And bubbles of brine replace prayers on your lips? When your eyes are submerged and your hair floats like weed? When it's too late for words will they still hold their worth? what makes you so sure this is worth it?
Published on: 9/27/2013
Secundigravida
This parasite has dragged me down. Gene-fuelled amnesia tricked me. Secreted memories I now regurgitate. How could I forget? Again, I seek the comfort of cold porcelain clutch its rim, feel the world heave. Helpless against invasion, losing all identity, I am extending. Stretched in violent hours of sleepless torture. And I, a willing host, forgot this subjugation. Remembered only an enslaving surge of love.
Published on: 9/25/2013
Grapefruit
Late autumn in Lavender Hill and I perched in her kitchen, a Frigidaire to my back. Florrie Mac rolled the fruit with her back to the Belling. Pigeons flirted on rooftops, and the distance between us shrank from fifty-nine years to a square of formica. When she felt the fruit yield she dug deep, nails piercing its dimples, discarding its skin exposing a pithy white petticoat fleece. Down her thumbs delved, to its core, and then spread, dividing her cache and transferring a quarter from her hand to mine. The incision. Her nails, oval-smooth and half-mooned slicing through the first piece. The papery membrane folding back to reveal its pale glossy lined flesh. Her thumbs, underneath, easing out to the edges 'til a crescent of fruit is unloosed, and falls, whole. On our way into London this summer We passed Lavender Hill on the train. In a breath I returned. Florrie's citrus-sweet tang squeezing my throat and pressing her memory onto my tongue.
|