Probably not the best time of year to remind you of the cold, but here are 3 snowy haiku.
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay
SNOW
Flakes drop gently down,
Turning all the land to white.
A magical sight.
Nothing can be seen.
Earth and sky blend into one
In the blizzard’s rage.
Waking in the dawn,
Mysterious light shines in.
It snowed in the night.
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,
I have given it 5*
The warmth of the sun,
The gentle buzzing of bees,
Tells us it’s summer.
Scorching the desert.
Nothing can live in this heat
From the burning sun.
The sun smiles in the sky.
People smile on Earth below
To see him shining.
I hope you enjoyed these three more haiku. I’m trying to give different images of the kinds of weather, both positive and negative.
Do you write Haiku? If you do, let us know in the comments box. Perhaps you can post one for us all to see.
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.
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).
Links:
Blog: https://kmorrispoet.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/drewdog2060_
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6879063.K_Morris
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.
This is a checklist everyone should think about.
March wind howls like wolves
Stalking herds of antelope
But I am safe inside.
Gentle breezes sigh,
Making all the flowers dance,
And wheat fields ripple.
The wind can destroy,
Downing trees and causing
Immense destruction.
I’ve tried to give different aspects of the wind in these three haiku.
Have you written any haiku? Did you find it easy or difficult to stick to the required format? I’d love to know what you wrote about and whether you posted them online.
RAIN
I decided, a few weeks ago, to try my hand at writing Haiku. We’d just had a very rainy, wet winter and so I began with 3 about rain.
Gentle rain, sweet rain.
Pitter-patter on the leaves
Helps the flowers grow.
The rain hammers down.
It drenches the sodden ground.
Rivers overflow.
Rainbow in the sky.
The sunshine split by raindrops.
Glorious colour.
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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Everything dead.
Nothing moves.
The skies of lead
Press down on the roofs.
The icicles hang
Like teeth in the maw.
Each one a fang
In a wolf’s jaw.
The wind with his knife
Cuts through to the bone.
Soon snow will arrive
And the swallows have flown.
The trees that were green
Are now turned to white,
And everything’s seen
In a glowing bright light.
But look what I’ve found!
A tiny green shoot
Pushing up through the ground.
A snowdrop, no doubt.
It tells of the spring
Not so far away,
And how it will bring
All the flowers of May.
This story is set in Britain, in what is now Yorkshire at the time of the Danes and tells of the trials and tribulations of Helgha. This is a saga told by a scald (the Danish equivalent of a bard.) It tells of how Erik won Helgha from her father.
“Erik loved the beauteous maiden, Helgha,
The most beautiful maid
Amongst all the Danes.
Her flaxen hair flowed like moonlight on the seas
And her blue eyes glowed like the sky in summer.
But they could not marry.
For Erik was promised to another.
He visited his love often
Until her father challenged him
To a battle.
Sword rang on shield.
Axe split the air with sound like thunder.
Young and strong, was Erik,
Older and wily was Biorn.
Who would win?
Youth and strength or
Guile and Experience?
Biorn struck first with his axe,
But Erik raised his shield.
Biorn’s axe glanced off.
Erik fought bravely
Until Biorn’s shield broke.
Biorn hit Erik with the edge and drew first blood.
Brave Erik did not flinch.
Blood streamed from the gash in his cheek
But he fought on, ignoring pain and blood.
The battle continued for hours.
Erik parried the axe with his shield.
His sword longing for blood.
His eyes burning with the pleasure of the fight.
Then Erik saw Biorn tiring
The man’s steps became slow,
His axe dragged
As if reluctant to hit this brave young warrior.
Erik backed into a barn wall and feigned a slip.
When Biorn came with raised axe
To finish the battle and send Erik to Valhalla,
The young warrior rolled beneath the axe
And as Biorn raised his weapon,
Erik sent his sword upwards.
Into the heart of his foe it went.
Blood flowed over both.
As Biorn crashed down, Erik rolled away.
Helgha screamed.
Her lover and her father both drenched in blood.
Who lived and who died?
Then Erik rose and seized the maiden.
He fled to Stjarna, his horse,
And leaped to her back with Helgha.
They galloped all night
Until at dawn they arrived in Jorvik.
Now Erik has a beautiful bed-slave.
And a scar on his cheek
To remind all of his bravery.”
The book is undergoing the editing process at the moment. I’ll keep you all informed as to how it’s getting on. Nearly through the first rewrite.
