Poetic licence
We should celebrate poetry more than we do. On this National Poetry Day the first I knew of it was in someone's journal. Out there is a vast body of work which goes largely ignored by a great many people. I suspect most people were introduced to poetry at school which, by and large, is an excellent way of turning people right off something.
My introduction to poetry came at a very early age. I was around seven years of when I started elocution lessons taught by the rather eccentric Mrs Waterton. If any of you ever wondered why my local accent is, for the most part, non-existent then that's a large part of the reason. The world of elocution is, for the average seven year old, quite confusing. They talk about things like th tone and colour and shape of the voice and speak out rhythms as 'ta ta TA ta ta TA ta ta TA TA TA' but somehow I managed to survive and almost excel.
For the examinations (yes indeed, there are examinations in how to speak proper) one has to learn a poem and then walk into a room and speak it off by heart to someone who then makes judgement on how well you did. One of the first poems I did was Mice by Rose Fyleman:
I think mice
Are rather nice.
There tails are long,
Their faces small,
They haven't any
Chins at all.
Their ears are pink,
Their teeth are white,
They run about
The house at night.
They nibble things
They shouldn`t touch
And no one seems
To like them much
But I think mice
Are Nice
Anyway, I reached the dizzy heights of Poetry Vanguard 'Inter-Advanced Certificate' in verse speaking by the time I left primary school and headed to secondary school.
My sister also suffered the same fate and the one poem of hers that sticks clearly in my mind is The ABC by Spike Milligan:
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"
Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"
"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."
C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."
"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."
"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.
"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."
X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."
The next memorable poetry for me was introduced by Dr Ford who was a somewhat peculiar man but a competent teacher in his way. I remember, but sadly only vaguely, a poem we had to learn which I think was simply called 'The Birthday' but my attempts at finding it online have been unsuccessful. It was short, which was why most people chose it to learn when given free choice. It's about a miserable old man who lives alone and I remember the lines 'you keep it now as a spittoon, it's bloated doves it's 1936 stained by the droppings of your blood' - cheery stuff indeed. I also recall studying The Applicant by Sylvia Plath:
First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,
Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand
To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed
To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit----
Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.
Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that ?
Naked as paper to start
But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk , talk.
It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.
At some point I was also introduced to the poetry of the first world war of which I shall give two decent examples. First, The General by Siegfried Sassoon:
"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
And secondly, Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen:
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Still fitting in these modern times as we continue to send boys to their death abroad.
So yeah. That's my tribute to National Poetry Day. I hope you enjoyed it.
My introduction to poetry came at a very early age. I was around seven years of when I started elocution lessons taught by the rather eccentric Mrs Waterton. If any of you ever wondered why my local accent is, for the most part, non-existent then that's a large part of the reason. The world of elocution is, for the average seven year old, quite confusing. They talk about things like th tone and colour and shape of the voice and speak out rhythms as 'ta ta TA ta ta TA ta ta TA TA TA' but somehow I managed to survive and almost excel.
For the examinations (yes indeed, there are examinations in how to speak proper) one has to learn a poem and then walk into a room and speak it off by heart to someone who then makes judgement on how well you did. One of the first poems I did was Mice by Rose Fyleman:
I think mice
Are rather nice.
There tails are long,
Their faces small,
They haven't any
Chins at all.
Their ears are pink,
Their teeth are white,
They run about
The house at night.
They nibble things
They shouldn`t touch
And no one seems
To like them much
But I think mice
Are Nice
Anyway, I reached the dizzy heights of Poetry Vanguard 'Inter-Advanced Certificate' in verse speaking by the time I left primary school and headed to secondary school.
My sister also suffered the same fate and the one poem of hers that sticks clearly in my mind is The ABC by Spike Milligan:
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"
Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"
"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."
C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."
"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."
"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.
"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."
X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."
The next memorable poetry for me was introduced by Dr Ford who was a somewhat peculiar man but a competent teacher in his way. I remember, but sadly only vaguely, a poem we had to learn which I think was simply called 'The Birthday' but my attempts at finding it online have been unsuccessful. It was short, which was why most people chose it to learn when given free choice. It's about a miserable old man who lives alone and I remember the lines 'you keep it now as a spittoon, it's bloated doves it's 1936 stained by the droppings of your blood' - cheery stuff indeed. I also recall studying The Applicant by Sylvia Plath:
First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,
Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand
To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed
To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit----
Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.
Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that ?
Naked as paper to start
But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk , talk.
It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.
At some point I was also introduced to the poetry of the first world war of which I shall give two decent examples. First, The General by Siegfried Sassoon:
"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
And secondly, Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen:
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Still fitting in these modern times as we continue to send boys to their death abroad.
So yeah. That's my tribute to National Poetry Day. I hope you enjoyed it.