Patricia M Osborne

R – Rivals

Rivals is an old poem and it was inspired from a prompt at my first Open University Creative Writing Tutorial. I love to paint but because of writing there never seems to be the time. So here’s my paintbrush complaining.

 

Rivals

Rivals
I stand alone in a colourful pot,
bristles, dry and crispy,
why do those inky
rivals get attention
and not me?

Dip me in blue,
paint a cloudless sky,
orange, a fire burnished sun.
Dip me in green, paint a land
with tall trees, mounds on moors
but instead she chooses the pen.

Abandoned I stand and wait for the time,
when her words too, will become dry.
Until then here I am, stiff, rigid and cold,
watching and envying the pen.

***

A few Poetic terms

R – Reader

Although a poet writes for him/herself first and foremost – poems need to be heard – they need an audience – they need a reader.

R – Refrain

A refrain is a bit like the chorus in a song.

R – Repetition

Repetition works well in some poetry and of course the refrain comes into that.

R – Rhyme

And we mustn’t forget rhyme. Sometimes though the rhyme isn’t always obvious, but you need to listen out for it. You can have internal rhyme or slant rhyme  such as brake/brave.

When using end rhyme the poet needs to take care that the poem doesn’t become forced, it has to be natural. My favourite form to write is free verse. I like to listen out for sound echoes by using internal rhyme and heightening the images with the use of imagery. However I do enjoy writing closed forms too and see them as mathematical challenges.

***

 

 

 

Q – Quatrain

A four-line stanza that can be rhymed or unrhymed (or partly rhymed) (John Dury The Poetry Dictionary)

Q is for my poem,  ‘All Change’ – an even-rhymed quatrain.

All Change

Oblong at first,
hairy and small,
lived on a leaf,
curled in a ball.

Slithered along
in search of food,
to build myself up,
ate all that was good.

Then came the time
to close my eyes,
cocooned in a cover,
quite a long while.

Along came Spring,
told me to wake,
time to push through,
make my escape.

Re-emerged with wings
in soft burnished gold.
transformed in sleep
to a beauty I’m told.

In summer I flit
from flowers to trees,
but the buddleia bush
is the best home for me.

Q – Question

Question – ‘What does Ice Make me Think of?’ was a prompt for a poem. 

 

 

What Does Ice Make Me Think of? 

Ice makes me think of fruit sorbet
and vanilla ice-cream. It reminds
me of Alice Hoffman’s magical Ice Queen.
Heat ice and temperature rises, liquid
forms. Wait a while longer and mist
appears, to blind and burn. Ice
makes me think winter and bitterly cold,
when I want to be warm. How I may slip over
if not alert and have to stay strong.
Ice is wet, cut in blocks like small square bricks
immersed in cold drinks. An Inuit Eskimo
may live in an igloo made from ice and snow.

That’s what ice makes me think of.

***

Before I leave today’s blog I would like to move back to yesterday ‘P’ and the Penta Decima. Corinne Lawrence, a poet, responded to my Penta Decima post and I thought it deserved to be featured rather than tailed on in comments. So here’s Corinne’s response with her poem and I’m sure you’ll agree with me that she’s made a great use of the form in this very moving poem.

From Corinne:

I think the Penta Decima seems to lend itself to an elegiac mood, and I have to say I found it a challenge to write, but very rewarding. The rhyme scheme is quite subtle and understated – nice.

Here’s my Penta Decima, written after a second trip to Grindleford in Derbyshire in August/ September 2017.

 

The Return

The poem is dedicated to the memory of our dear friend Gina Bunbury (January 27th 1943 – August 8th 2017)

We might have touched down just yesterday
to the same butterflies, the same bees — the sky
as blue, tea roses still in bloom, the bench free.

Two months, but we might never have been away
from our mini Provence. Only the gunnera
shows the passing of time: brown-edged,

shrivelling, it has shrunk back, giving way
to the river. Water music weeps over stone:
a requiem for summer. Still, as before,

we soak up sunshine, savour the bouquet
of lavender riding warm air, and try not to think
sadly of September, or the week to come.

We both knew, but found it too hard to say:
our last time here was before we heard she’d gone,
making this quite a different sort of day.

***

About Corinne

Corinne is not only a fantastic poet but also a very talented playwright and her stage plays have been performed at Swanwick Writer’s Summer School on more than one occasion. Her poems have been published in Reach Magazine, (Indigo Dreams), Writers’ Forum Magazine, and Writing Magazine. Many of these poems have taken the winning place.

Thank you for commenting on the Penta Decima, Corinne, and allowing me to share your poem.

 

 

P – Poetry in the Park

Poetry in the Park was inspired during my time as Poet in Residence at a local Victorian Park. This poem will be included in my upcoming poetry collection, In a Delightful Country. 

 

 

 

Poetry in the Park
Pulham fountain flows,
children clamber
on stained Jersey cows,

finches flit from tree to tree.
ducks dive,
coots and moorhens chug.

Yarn bombs cuddle bark,
kiss orange fiery branches
under liquid amber’s umbrella.

 

***

P – Penta-decima

Have you ever thought about inventing your own poetry form? Well that was one of the tasks set by Alison Chisholm (Poet, Judge and Tutor) last year at  Swanwick Writers’ Summer School, using a prompt of ‘New Beginnings.’

Not wanting to be beaten, I stayed up half the night on the Wednesday to reach a first draft of a poem in the form of my own invention, a Penta-Decima.

A Penta Decima consists of:

15 lines.

5 stanzas written in tercets.

The first line of the first four stanzas rhyme with each other.

First and third line rhyme in the final stanza.

The lines are not syllable controlled so offer freedom.

 ***

Here’s my first Penta Decima which is in its very early stages so subject to change but it will give you the idea.

I’d love to hear what you think of this form and please feel free to have a go and post your own.

Monochrome

The 12 x 10 space is cold and bare,
Georgian windows stripped from drapes,
footfalls echo through the house.

A heavy drop reveals a chair,
married up with a double couch,
leather upholstery steals o2.

Muscled men settle a bed on the stair,
they take a deep breath, then heave.
Rooms start to take shape.

A black-framed print boasts a polar bear,
Royal Doulton’s Top Dogs claim the mantlepiece.
Fixtures and fittings form a new I.D.

Today a monochrome mould-
Time to shade in colour, create
tomorrow’s me and throw out the old.

 

 

O – Owl

Today we have a special guest, Maureen Cullen, a very talented poet and short story writer.

About Maureen:

Maureen writes poetry and short fiction. In 2016, she was published along with three other poets in Primers 1, a collaboration between Nine Arches Press and the Poetry School. She has poems published in Prole, The Lake, The Interpreter’s House, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Reach Poetry, Salopeot and forthcoming in Amaryllis.

Maureen has agreed to share her poem Owl.

Owl is from Volume One, Primers, 2016, Nine Arches Press

Owl

Teacher gied us an exercise
tae draw a picture of our fathers.

I drew an owl, coloured it in
wi shades of plaid, gied it glasses

like pennies. Owls wear glasses, I said,
cause they’re smart. I drew him a tie

like he wore for the church, a cap
for his clump of ginger feathers, sat

him on a branch of our oak tree
wi his Golden Virginia, a red spot

on the doup at his lip, smoke puffing
tae the top of the page, wished he’d fly,

stretching wing-tip tae wing-tip
but maybe he’d cough, need his back clapped.

I leant his walking stick on the bark
so he could wing-limp up the path.

 

Thank you for sharing Owl with us Maureen. I’m sure you’ll all agree with me that Maureen is a very talented poet.

***

Poetic Terms

O – Object Poem

‘A poem about an inanimate object. It may give us a fresh look at something ordinary, or it may transform a strange object into something familiar.’ (John Drury, Poetry Dictionary)

O – Octave

An eight-line stanza.

O – Occasional Verse

O – Ode

A song or lyric, often passionate, expansive, exuberant, rhapsodic. (John Drury, The Poetry Dictionary)

Here’s an ode that I wrote as part of my upcoming poetry collection In a Delightful Country. I wrote this following the Hoops and Haiku event, as a special request for the project manager at Worth Park, when I was completing my residency as part of my Communities module.

An Ode to Croquet

A smooth jade coat shines in the sun,
lawn cut low to strike and glide the balls.
Two-hundred and forty-five square metres
shimmer, waiting for croquet teams to play.
Hoops and balls are lined up on the court,
a sport where everyone is equal.
Grab yourself a mallet,
is the striker ready?
Janet scores a hoop, she makes a roquet
all in the same stroke – we hail thee Croquet.

***

Poets 

O – Wilfred Owen

‘Wilfred Owen, who wrote some of the best British poetry on World War I, composed nearly all of his poems in slightly over a year, from August 1917 to September 1918. In November 1918 he was killed in action at the age of twenty-five, one week before the Armistice.’ (Poetry Foundation) Read more

Read Anthem for Doomed Youth here

Read Exposure here

***

O – Sean O’Brien

‘Sean O’Brien (b. 1952) has been described as the leading poet–editor–critic of his generation. He was born in London but grew up in Hull. The North East – its landscapes, history and culture – have remained a core influence and concern in his poetry. He graduated from Selwyn College, Cambridge, and spent the 1980s teaching in a secondary school in East Sussex,’ (Forward Arts Foundation) Read more

You can read one of his poems, The Calm, on the Poetry Foundation website.

***

 

 

N – Now it’s Over

Now it’s Over was inspired by a memory exercise when completing an online Poetry School course last year. However, I took my memories and turned them into fiction.

 

Now it’s over

Lying on brown shag pile,
warmed by roaring flames,
listening to The Carpenters,
We’ve only just begun.

I sip red wine from crystal,
you stroke my hair and cheek,
whisper sweet nothings
in my ear—

That was yesterday
but the record still spins on.

***

N – Narrative

N is also for Narrative form. I tend to write most of my poetry this way. I like the way it tells a story.

‘Narrative poems come in all shapes and sizes, but they all have one thing in common: They tell stories.’ (Michael J Bugeja – The Art and Craft of Poetry)

N – Nature – Nature Poem – Red-Eared Terrapin

 

I wrote Red-Eared Terrapin around three years ago after watching two terrapins on my local lake.

The Red-Eared Terrapin

Unaware of onlookers,
a hard shell rests
on brittle bark,
basks in the sun.
Small slinky head
stretches towards the sky.

Aroused by footsteps
in snakehead blooms
he makes a dive, splashes
into dappled water,
but not before a red stripe
behind his ear reveals his name.

 

M – Magnificent Majesty

Magnificent Majesty was created for an assignment on my advanced creative writing course with the Open University. Part of the assignment included writing a villanelle which is a closed form. I chose a piano as my subject because that’s my second love to writing.

Magnificent Majesty was first published in Brian Wrixon’s Poets with Voices Strong – Rhyme with Reason and later on OAPSchat website.

 

Magnificent Majesty

The black beast stands proud on the floor,
his exquisite profile radiates light.
A magnificent majesty we all adore.

The lip of his mouth is open to explore
inside; ivory white teeth, gleaming and bright
in the black beast that stands proud on the floor.

Black tails sits down and strikes a chord
or two, then soft raindrops descend and glide
along the magnificent majesty we all adore.

He extends his arm to turn over the score
as he practises his repertoire for tonight,
on the black beast that stands proud on the floor.

The shower’s wrath deepens to storm
whilst the pianist continues to recite
on the magnificent majesty we all adore.

The virtuoso in his glory performs and ignores
what’s around as he plays with pride,
on the black beast that stands proud on the floor,
His Magnificent Majesty we all adore.

***

M – Muse

’The spirit, force, or a person that inspires or impels a poet to create.’ (John Drury, The Poetry Dictionary)

In the above poem my piano was my muse

M – Music Poem

Magnificent Majesty is a music poem as it uses Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude as an extended metaphor.

M – Mother’s Breath

Mother’s Breath is a Pantoum which is another closed form. I was inspired to write it when watching my mum sleeping in hospital in 2007. Thankfully we didn’t lose her at that time although she never fully recovered. She managed seven more years before falling asleep for the last time on June 22nd 2014. It was the saddest day of my life. I don’t think we ever get over losing a loved one but instead just get better at putting one foot in front of the other. My mum was one of the most inspiring women I’ve ever known. She showed courage and tenderness throughout her life, always putting others first, and she fought her terminal illness without complaint.

Mother’s Breath was first published in Brian Wrixon’s Poets with Voices Strong – Rhyme with Reason and later on OAPSchat website.

Mum this one’s for you…

Mother’s Breath
She lies peaceful, serene, and alone,
long silky-smooth hair drapes her face,
faded parting covering her crown.
She breathes peaceful in this safe place.

Long silky-smooth hair drapes her face
on the soft high swaddling retreat.
She breathes peaceful in this safe place,
her secure oasis, discrete.

In her soft high swaddling retreat,
she breathes softly, unaware I stand near
her secure oasis. I’m discreet
and patient, waiting and watching over her.

She breathes softly, unaware I’m near.
Her faded parting covering her crown.
I stay patient, waiting and watching her
as she lies, peaceful, serene and alone.

***

It took me a long time before I could write about the last moments of Mum’s life but I managed it when digging into memories while taking part in an online poetry course with The Poetry School last year.

 

Last Moments

Milky eyes
stare into space,

I drip water from a straw
into opened lips,

you suck but no words
leave your mouth.

I squeeze your hand
you squeeze mine,

I stroke long fingers
with tenderness.

The doctor calls me from the room:

you take a last gasp of air
at 11:22am and slip away,

not allowing goodbyes:

I’m not ready for you to die.

A photo frame hangs in my study,
nut-brown eyes sparkle,
open lips smile down at me.

A voice in my head whispers my name,
‘you’re not alone, I’m still here.’

Memories flood my mind:
kisses, cuddles and tucks up in bed,

playing catch, hopscotch, skipping,
two balls banging on the wall,

karaoke in the lounge,
giggles as we grease dance,

you twirl me under your arm,
we jive around the room,

delicious dinners,
a glass of Shiraz,

thrashings at Scrabble
and crosswords,

walks by the sea,
sandcastles on the sand,

that last Sunday morning
when I stroked and held your hand.

You’ll always be part of me,
You’ll always be in my heart

but not quite the same
as holding you in my arms.

 

L – Longer Days 

Longer Days was inspired by a spring prompt. It was first published in Brian Wrixon’s Poets with Voices Strong – Spring Poetry.

 

Longer Days

Longer days, shorter nights,
pastel colours sprout,
warmer sun, lighter wind,
children play and sing,
birds hum out loud.

Men on mountain bikes,
tots on tricycles,
spin fast,
speed on dust,
riders hold on tight.

Frogs seek out ponds,
safe home for birth,
mounting males drone,
females quiver,
too early to spawn.

Ducks dip,
ripple water.
Golden reeds of canary
grass blow sweet
scent with the wind.

 

L – Letter Poem

A poem written in the form of a letter

L – Light Verse

Light verse is poetry that entertains and tends to make the reader laugh. It includes the limerick.

 

 

 

 

K – Kleptomaniac Doctor

Kleptomaniac Doctor was inspired by an exercise prompt on my first creative writing course with the Open University.

Kleptomaniac Doctor

A registrar skulks into the ward,
his eyes sweep the area for a high-class reward.

Something bleeps on the locker to his right,
big buttons with large numbers bellow bright–

‘Aha,’ he bleats, ‘an old man’s phone,
how I’d like that as my own.’

His pocket itches for this prize,
he slides the new gem deep inside.

He empties his plunder at the end of duty–
…posse of phones, cuddly cutie,

pens, coasters, a tailor’s tape measure,
wristwatches, and his greatest treasure,

savoured for later when his shift is done,
a sticky but stale, piggy-pink iced bun.

K – Kyrielle

Kyrielle pronounced keer-ee-él is a French form with a four line stanza. Each line uses eight syllables and the fourth line is a refrain – chorus like. (John Drury, The Poetry Dictionary)

 

J – Jersey Cow

Inspiration was derived for this poem when on a placement as Poet in Residence, at a local Victorian park, after three wooden sculptured cows were erected in the park.

 

Jersey Cow 

Deep, dark eyes,
matching black nose
unable to smell,

no true mouth to chew
the grass beneath her hooves,

houses a heart
in her tanned timber body,
from Petworth’s 180-year-old oak tree.

 

J – Journey

When you begin a poem you begin a journey.

I love it when I start a new poem and begin my journey. It’s through this process that I watch my poems spring into life. The first draft acts as a frame and from here surplus words get eliminated and imagery added so the reader sees what I  see. Quite often some stanzas may be taken out completely and sometimes I may spend hours just trying to get one word right.

 

 

 

I – Ichthyostega 

Ichthostega was inspired when completing an April poetry challenge around five years ago.
This is how an ichthyostega looks today

Ichthyostega

Three foot long with a backbone too,
I’m a cross between a croc and a fish.

My doggy-like limbs move with ease
as I stir stealthily on the ground,

I slither into a stream to hide,
so the sun doesn’t dry my skin,

googly eyes bulge from my triangular head,
my pectoral fins scramble up trees.

I’m the first tetrapod to creep on land –
Named Mudskipper—for this is what I do.

 

I – Imagery

Imagery is something I like to use in my poetry. Hilda Doolittle was an imagist and my aim is to become known as an ‘imagist’ too.