HOW NOT TO WRITE POEMS

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YOU KNOW IT’S THE WRITE WAY

WHEN I PLAYED ROCK GUITAR

Nerves,
they get you, at first,
backstage;
You look composed, long hair backcombed,
velvet loons perfect, grandad vest, ripped,
sleeper and crucifix in ear,
guitar hanging, lazily, at your side,
the strap loose, so you can really move

Introduction
applause, the odd scream from the die hard fan,
You walk out, the strobe making a surreal world,
plug in, an electric ether enshrouding you,
and the first cord creates itself,
the speakers throbbing,
and you’re into the riff

Carried away,
rock taking you to another world,
a purple haze,
but communication no breakdown,
for you’re born to be wild,
and well into the set a slow 12 bar blues,
and a house of the rising sun,
and you’re reborn

And the instrumentals,
firing staccato notes into the crowd,
their bodies moving in tune to you,
the hall filled with an electric mysticism,
the alchemy of sound,
the fission of harmony,
and the crescendo ending, the encore,
and backstage with the girls,
for more

(c) Anthony North, April 2008

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THE GAP

It’s only about two months since I wrote my first poem. Since then I’ve stuck mainly to rhythm and rhyme, where I’ve felt comfortable. I haven’t a clue about the technique of poetry, but today I thought I’d take the plunge.
I don’t know whether the poems here are good or absolute rubbish. I hope they are not the latter, for I have expectations of not wanting to write rubbish. Which is typical of the human mind.
There is often a gap between expectation and reality, between thought and deed. The wise person understands this, but they are few and far between – a huge gap in society, as it were.
It is always best to understand this gap, for not doing so can often cause ridicule, conflict, misunderstanding or worse. For what we think of ourselves as being is often not the case. The gap between our thought of ourselves and other’s thoughts of us can be a chasm.
I sometimes think society would run far more smoothly if people took a grip of their expectations and closed the gap. But then again, in a smoothly running society, what would the poet write about?

© Anthony North, April 2008

I’M COLD

I’m cold,
the weather gets in my bones,
gone on too long;
I’m cold,
the heartbreak gets in my mind,
longing for her;
I’m cold,
shivering from within and without,
without warmth,
without her;
I’m cold,
and the icy winds blow,
the icy thoughts haunt,
an icy existence without and within,
within my world,
within my mind;
I’m cold

(c) Anthony North, April 2008

A DREAM?

I woke up from the dream

A crow landed on an umbrella and said:
‘why are you being held by a post?’
The post said:
‘Don’t be stupid. Umbrellas can’t speak.’
The crow noticed the post wore a dress, so said:
‘So why are you holding an umbrella?’
The post looked at the crow as if it was mad -
‘So the dress won’t get wet,’ said the post.

I went back to my dream
Reality was too much

(c) Anthony North, April 2008