Poetic Time Out

Recharge

Well, that’s it, the mind of Davy D has officially dried up for a week. The speedos are in the bag and me and Mrs. D are off rampaging around the South Coast of England. And they thought they had trouble with the Normans in 1066.

I considered scheduling some blog posts, but as the chat and interaction are the things I enjoy the most, it makes sense to have a complete break for a week. They say absence (or is it absinthe) makes the heart grow fonder.

If you miss me too much please have a browse through the blog and catch up on something you may have missed.

I will be back on the 2nd of October 2017 with more crimes against poetry.

Have a great week.

Dad Dance

Dad Dance

Class War

Class War

Speedos

Speedos

Unfinished

Unfinished

Poetic Motivations:61

Poetic Motivations-61

Violins and Poetry

Poetic Beats

Welcome to this weeks edition of Poetic Beats with Howard Bond and Davy D, recorded on the 11th of September 2017 on Red Kite Radio.

In this edition I read my poem, First Violin, and look at the role of the violin in poetry. Louisa May Alcott referred to the violin as “the most human of all instruments. Emily Dickinson used the violin in her poetry as a metaphor to describe her understanding of the connection between Spirit and Body.

For those of you who can’t access the recording, the text version of First Violin is added after the recording bar.

To hear the recording, please press the arrow on the left of the sound bar below.

 

Poetic Beats will be taking a break for a couple of weeks and will be back on Friday the 6th of October. Have a great weekend.

First Violin

it was a thing of beauty.
your face a picture, as you
opened the case and saw it
for the first time
laid in red silk, fairy lights reflecting
on polished maple,
resin overpowering pine.

we laughed as you battled
with the chinrest, trying to
breathe new life
into aged strings.

we cried at your early renditions
of “cat dragged across a blackboard.”

you persevered.

Sunday mornings
became the Royal Festival Hall.
Mutter, Neveu, Handel
graffiti on your bedroom wall.
until youth’s folly led you away,
the violin put to rest again.

sometimes i still sneak
into your cupboard
opening the case, listening
to the songs you left behind –

amongst disturbed dust.

© Davy D 2017

The Truth About Sonnets

The Truth About Sonnets

The sonnet has always created my greatest fear in poetic terms. I don’t know whether it’s linked to my aversion to all things Shakespearean; Shakespeare’s sonnets were my first introduction to the form. In a typical teenage tantrum, once I had taken a grave dislike to the Bard and all his words, that was that – until now.

Time and old age have found me softening to Old Will and the sonnet has started to appeal a little. In recent months, this interest has deepened after reading a number of excellent sonnets written by Nigel over at Voices Of A Hidden Self. Nigel has turned the sonnet into an art form and pushed me into overcoming my fears and attempting to write a sonnet. If you get a chance please visit his blog and read and listen to his wonderful poetry.

How then do you write a sonnet? According to Don Patterson in his book, 101 Sonnets, things are not as simple as they first appear. Poets have been writing sonnets for about 750 years and there have been many interpretations of the form, to the point that Don Patterson states, “what constitutes a true sonnet is the fact that no one can agree on anything but the fact it has fourteen lines.”

So, on that helpful note, here goes.

Sonnets force the mind to a life of grime,
Darkness falls whenever those thoughts appear
Of trying to get the buggers to rhyme,
Reduced to swimming against tides of fear.
Old Will, his poetry revolves and taunts
Each stanza eating, into day and dream.
One hundred and fifty-four tease and haunt,
Stripping each layer of one’s self esteem.
The sonnet box sits open and rusty,
Words lie sleeping upon a callous floor.
A Bard, he laughs at the page still empty,
His dark shadow filling poetry’s door.
                  But I was raised amongst tough mining stock.
                  The pen will bleed smashing, this sonnet rock.

Hidden

Hidden

Dream’s End

Dream's End