POEMS

HAIKU

• I often play Fortnite
• Sometimes I play late at night
• Mostly in daylight
• HAKIU is a poem that first and last line have 5 syllables and middle line has 7
• An old silent pond... A frog jumps into the pond, splash! Silence again.
• Unknown

EPIC POEM

• The man awoke upon the morn To the sunlight streaming down Down upon the bed through the window pane The curtains that swathed it having been Left wide open to the elements The night before in his haste To retreat to the land of Nod He squinted and raised a hand To shield his vision from the glare That had so recently disturbed him From his sojourn in dreamland. He lay upon the bed awhile Basking in the morning light Thinking upon the day before him He could delay it no longer The day must be commenced Despite his reticence and the comfort To be found amongst the bed sheets. But then the swirling dust motes caught his eye As they danced and twirled before him In the shafts of sunlight streaming down That had so recently disturbed him As they performed their ballet To music beyond his hearing He admired the twirling journey Of their dance upon the air And pondered awhile upon their beauty And perhaps if it could be used To aid the work that faced him. With this reminder he shifted He really must desist this lazing Around in bed for half the morn He had work to be commenced. He raised his arms above his head And with a crack stretched out long Dispelling the vestiges of sleep From their places in his weary limbs But as he stretched his gaze lifted To the roof above him And upon that roof he happened to spy A shaft of the morning’s light That had so recently disturbed him It sliced the roof in half up high Two halves of shadow ripped asunder By this line of blazing glory light Right above his head. The sight above him brought to mind Great canyons in the desert Or rivers cleaving land in two Or perhaps, a glimpse between two curtains As the light spilled from within Offering the unseen observer A glimpse into a world Thought private by its occupants Yes, he thought, that was good He’d have to note that down And remember to use it later Once his work had been commenced. He sat up and winced once more At the light that invaded his room And wished that he had had the foresight Last night to draw his own curtains across And then perhaps he would have been saved From the insistent morning glow That had so recently disturbed him. He swung his legs from under the covers And stretched once more up high Still he did not feel ready to face What lay before him, though he must His toes lighted upon the wooden beams Of the floor of his bedroom And he shuddered, for though the light Was fierce and bright and white None of its warmth had thought to reach The floor upon which he trod At times such as this (so every morn) He wished he were the type of chap To own a pair of slippers to put upon his feet And protect them from the frost of the floor It was a while before he found himself Descending the stairs to the rooms below For though his work must be commenced He was not eager to make a start He prepared himself some food Because he can’t work on an empty stomach He prepared himself a drink Because the mind needs liquid to function It was a hot drink, so took longer Because he couldn’t think if he was cold He returned upstairs for a jumper Because the hot drink might not be enough To keep him warm enough He opened all his letters And answered every one Because he would not allow his work To get in the way of his manners He washed and dried his dishes Because the imagination would not be freed If the shackles of chores lay upon him And then there was nothing left to do But work And so he sat down at his desk He adjusted his chair just so He took a fresh sheet of paper And smoothed it out before him He took a pencil from the pot And looking at it, frowned Then retrieved a sharpener And would not settle until It was the perfect sharpness With no risk of the lead snapping And interrupting his flow Such a happening had the potential To ruin a whole day’s work And close off his mind to his task Until the next morn when he would Be awoken by the sun once more. He was ready to begin The paper was blank and crease free The pencil was ready to scratch Its lead across the white surface Leaving behind its trail There was nothing left to do Within the house, it had all been done There was nothing to distract him From the hours that lay ahead And those hours did pass Slowly, sleepily, sloth-like They ambled on by Dragging him through the day One painful minute by minute Yet still the paper remained Blank and crease free Yet still the pencil remained Sharp and ready to scratch Its lead across the white surface Leaving behind the trail He racked his brain but nothing He half remembered fleeting thoughts From when he had first awoken From when the sun blazed so fiercely down Upon his sleeping form And disturbed him from his slumber Something about the ceiling And curtains, yes definitely curtains He was sure the words had flowed Easily into his mind Cascading waterfalls of words But the symphony that had Accompanied them when they first Had emerged fully formed inside his head Now sounded hollow and dull And merely a racket, no melody at all He picked up the pencil But still did not write He looked down at the lead And wood creation in his hand And threw his pencil to the fire As if it had been its fault For failing him He looked at the paper upon his desk Its blankness accusing him Mocking him He scrunched it up into a ball And threw it after the pencil He took a fresh sheet of paper And smoothed it out before him He took a pencil from the pot And looking at it, frowned Then retrieved a sharpener And would not settle until It was the perfect sharpness With no risk of the lead snapping And interrupting his flow (If he ever found his flow) He closed his eyes in concentration He meditated for relaxation He thrashed He wailed He begged the powers that be But all to no avail The words just would not come And then, in exhaustion, in submission He finally admitted defeat After hours in his seat with nothing achieved And days and weeks of the same He set down the pencil That was the perfect sharpness Upon the paper That was smooth and blank And tried to write no more ‘I am a lie, a deceit, a fraud’ He said to the empty air ‘For how can I call myself a poet When not a single word I write’ Beowulf
• A long narrative poem
• I have lived in important places, times When great events were decided, who owned That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims. I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul!" And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen Step the plot defying blue cast-steel - "Here is the march along these iron stones." That was the year of the Munich bother. Which Was more important? I inclined To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind. He said: I made the Iliad from such A local row. Gods make their own importance.
• Unknow

PINDARIC ODE

• There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore; Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. http://biography.yourdictionary.com/william-wordsworth William Wordsworth
• A poem meant to be sung
• Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection; In the riven troughs the splayed leaves Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament To the seasonal eternity of death; Then driven by the fierce scrutiny Of heaven to their election in the vast breath, They sough the rumour of mortality."
• Unknown

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