I recently welcomed Kevin Morris to my blog where he kindly told us a bit about himself. I have read his latest poetry book, and here is my review.
Kevin writes what I call ‘real’ poetry. I don’t like the so-called free verse that most poets seem to write nowadays. Free of what? Rhyme and rhythm. Both are what make a poem. Without those, it might just as well be a piece of prose, albeit in arbitrary lines.
Kevin’s poems rhyme, by and large, and they have rhythm. The poetry in this book is beautiful, and makes you think.
As implied by the title, the poetry is both serious and amusing. I love Kevin’s limericks. They are always witty and sometimes a bit naughty.
The serious poems are lovely and have deep thoughts behind them. This is definitely a poetry book to read many times over,
Today I welcome one of my favourite poets to my blog.
Kevin Morris is a poet who writes both humorous and serious poetry. I will hand over to Kevin now, and he can explain about his poetry much better than I can.
Welcome, Kevin. Please tell us about your poetry.
I have, for as long as I can remember, been a lover of poetry. The first poem I recollect having read is Alfred Noyes’s “The Highwayman”, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43187/the-highwayman. I was (and remain)entranced by the rhythm of the poem and how it matches the beat of the horse’s feet, as the Highwayman approaches the inn:
“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door”.
I find good rhyming poetry profoundly beautiful, and much of my own work is written in rhyme. Take, for example my poem “Autumn Fly”, which appears in my forthcoming collection, “Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) poems”.
“An autumn fly Buzzes around my head. Summer is dead Yet will not die. Seasons pass. We are brittle as glass, This fly And I”.
Whilst sitting in my study, in late autumn, a fly began buzzing around my head. This brought to mind the mortality of this tiny insect and also that of man. Hence the above poem was born.
I have many happy memories of strolling through the woods with my grandfather and it was from him that I gained my love of nature. This affection for nature was, I believe encouraged further by my reading of poems such as Keats “Autumn”. Much of my own poetry touches on the theme of nature. Take, for example my poem “Rain”.
“The rain Patters amongst these leaves. I listen again And ascertain That it’s the breeze Midst these trees. Yet it sounds the same As rain”.
As with “Autumn Fly”, “Rain” came to me naturally as a rhyming poem. I could not have expressed what I wished to convey had I utilised free verse, as rhyme comes naturally to me, whilst other forms of poetic expression do not.
Whilst there exists some wonderful poetry composed in free verse, to me much free verse is poetic prose rather than true poetry. Many poems written in free verse are beautiful. However, for me their beauty resides in their poetic prose, they are not, in my opinion poetry as I understand it (I.E. with real rhyme and metre).
One can not always be serious, and section 2 of “Light and Shade” is devoted to my humorous verses. Take, for example my poem “Jane’s Sad Refrain”:
“A young lady named Jane Sang a most mournful refrain. I could repeat her song, As it wouldn’t take long, But it’s copyright of Jane!”
To conclude. Poetry is, for me about rhyme and its rhyme with which I feel most comfortable. There is, as I said, some wonderful free verse poetry out there. However, for me at least much of this (but by no means all) is poetic prose rather than poetry proper.
(“Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) Poems”, by Kevin Morris will be available in the Amazon Kindle store, and as a paperback in July 2020).
Thank you, Kevin, for telling us more about your poetry. I agree with you about free verse. It’s something I’ve thought for a long time. I have written poetry that doesn’t rhyme, but it always has rhythm. And I love the poem about Jane!
I would encourage everyone to search out your poetry books and to visit your blog.
Good luck with this latest one. I look forward to its publication.
If you have any comments to either myself, or Kevin, please enter them in the comments box. Feel free to reblog this.
Some time ago, I posted a poem written by my Mum. I think it’s time for another one. She only started writing them when she was getting on in years, but the family all thought they were great fun.
Everything is so much further Then it ever used to be. The little shop around the corner Seems twice as far to me.
The buses were always punctual I could go with the greatest of ease. But now they seem to be early And my legs do just as they please.
The stairs are made so much steeper I’m flat out when I get to the top Amd the print in the papers is so small That my eyes are beginning to pop.
I can’t do with the way people mumble. I only hear half of the tale. They tell me the news in a whisper, Or shout till I feel I could wail.
The dresses are made so much tighter Especially round waist and hips. And diets are all in the fashion. No goodies, like good fish and chips.
Even people are different this day and age They all seem to look so much younger. Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn And look to be dying of hunger.
I met with a friend the other day. She really looked old and withered. I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought, And I know I’m not half so bothered.
Everything is so much further Then it ever used to be. The little shop around the corner Seems twice as far to me.
The buses were always punctual I could go with the greatest of ease. But now they seem to be early And my legs do just as they please.
The stairs are made so much steeper I’m flat out when I get to the top Amd the print in the papers is so small That my eyes are beginning to pop.
I can’t do with the way people mumble. I only hear half of the tale. They tell me the news in a whisper, Or shout till I feel I could wail.
The dresses are made so much tighter Especially round waist and hips. And diets are all in the fashion. No goodies, like good fish and chips.
Even people are different this day and age They all seem to look so much younger. Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn And look to be dying of hunger.
I met with a friend the other day. She really looked old and withered. I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought, And I know I’m not half so bothered.
I looked in the mirror to see for myself. For I’m really not ready to go on the shelf. But a grey-haired old woman was looking at me. Even mirrors are not like they used to be.
If you enjoyed my Mum’s poem please leave a comment in the comments box.
Feel free to reblog. I would appreciate a link back to my blog if you feel like it.
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When the Hallowe’en Poetry Contest arrived once more, I was stuck for ideas, having done it for the last 4 years. I needed inspiration.
I didn’t want to go down the ‘isn’t it a fun holiday’ route because I don’t think it is. It’s All Hallows Eve, the night before All Saints’ Day when the Christian Church celebrates all the saints who have died before.
It’s also Samhain, when the pre-Christian religion celebrated their ancestors and welcomed them into their homes.
My father died when I was very small. I only have a few vague memories of him, and so I decided to write a poem thinking of him, and, if the pre-Christians are right, he would come to visit me every year.
I hope you enjoy this. I know it’s a bit late for Hallowe’en, but never mind!
I Died. I didn’t want to go. I left my wife and daughter so I cried.
I thought
I could no longer see
All their future without me.
I fought.
I found
That each All Hallows Eve,
I could return—I need not grieve.
Not bound.
I come
To them each Hallowe’en.
They do not know. I am not seen.
I’m dumb.
They live And I surround them both With all my love which I’m not loath To give.
Here ends my tale.
I will be filled with endless glee
When they come to dwell with me
Beyond the veil.
Today, for a change, instead of posting my own writing I thought I’d let you see a poem written by my Mum. She died in 1992, but would have been chuffed to see her poem on the net. She had a terrific sense of humour.
This one is one of several she wrote about growing old.
Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.
The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.
The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.
I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.
The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.
Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.
Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.
I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.
I looked in the mirror to see for myself.
For I’m really not ready to go on the shelf.
But a grey-haired old woman was looking at me.
Even mirrors are not like they used to be.
Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.
Newborn lambs frolic in fields.
New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows
And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.
At the edges of woodland the primroses glow
And cowslips their scent fills the air.
Anemones dance when the breezes do blow
And birds sing with never a care.
Then bluebells and campions come into bloom
Their colour the blue of the sea.
The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon
His call echoing over the lea.
The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.
His notes are so pure and so clear.
Hearing him seems to banish the cold
And brings joy to all those who hear.
Robin is nesting, and other birds too,
The hedgehog is active once more.
The young of the deer and the badger and shrew
Play their games as in old days of yore.
The sun climbs higher and higher each day
Giving more of his heat and his light.
It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.
All smile at the beautiful sight.
Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.
What blessings will come with this day?
New starts can begin once again with each dawn
And send us all hopeful away.
I hope you like this spring poem. Please tell me what you think in the comments.
I posted this poem once before, but have decided to post it again as on Sunday it’s 100 years since the Armistice . I hope you enjoy it.
WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.
I’ll never truly understand
How World War I began.
The death of Archduke Ferdinand
Started the deaths of many more,
The young, the old, the rich, the poor.
All died with guns in hand.
My Grandad went with Uncle Jim
And Our Poor Willie, too.
They sent them off, singing a hymn.
Grandad went to Gallipoli,
Uncle Jim left his love, Polly.
Gas in trenches did kill him.
I cannot see, in my mind’s eye
Grandad with gun in hand.
A peaceful man, sent out to die.
He fought for us, for you and me
So we can live and so that we
Safely in our beds may lie.
Grandad came home, and Willie too,
But millions more did not.
Their duty they all had to do.
They died in fear, in noise, in blood.
Everything was caked in mud.
Yet in those fields the poppies grew.
The War to end all wars, they said,
So terrible were the deaths.
The youth of Europe all lay dead.
Yet 21 short years to come
Another war. Once more a gun
In young men’s hands brought death.
One hundred years have passed since then.
What have we learned? Not much!
Too many men are killing men.
Wars still abound around the world.
Bombs and missiles still are hurled
At those who disagree with them.
Grandad came home, and Willie too,