I confess

I love you more than marmalade
I love you more than jam
I love you more than earl grey tea
I love you as you am.

I love you in the living room
I love you in the bed
I love you  in the bus shelter
I love you just instead.

I love you in your underwear
I love you when you’re  dressed
I love you in  that old grey coat
I love  you ,I confess.

A changed letter

When I leave the television on
Without the sound
On the drama channel
I see the same actors
Rotating through their many  roles
The handsome  yet slightly too
So probably evil
The perfect,so good.
In different garments they make a  less rich world
That anyone might imagine.
A changed letter,a meaning leaps.
A scream it’s the adverts  now.
I’m not even looking
Because I knew it all
From the first moment you spoke
But you were him then
Yet I was me.

I call it stranger

The word is  right yet destitute,
Does not fit the sentence
Has no place.
The word is  spoken rarely with no pleasure
Is not welcome where it reaches
Has no anchor.
It has no companions,hence no prosody.
Can’t be knitted;
Has no mooring.
The word is dying. I say it never lived;
Cannot be mentioned,
Creates no order.
The word is made from letters
Yet  they congeal and kill
Ironically ,some call it liver.
I call it stranger.

Yet with your eyes you made a final call

The pattern of your speech is in my ear
Although I do not hear  you speak  out loud
Shall I say ear or is it heart that bears
The form   that  made  your speech have its right sound?

Wherever in myself I find your trace
I long to keep it even when I grieve.
As though, because I do not see your face,
I never wish by sound to be deceived.

And at the end you did not speak at all
Like the baby  while inside its  nest.
Yet with your eyes you made a final call
As contented as a baby   joined to breast.

And so you went, but left your patterns here.
So with  fine prosody, I feel you near

 

Prosody

From google
Prosody
ˈprɒsədi/
noun
noun: prosody; plural noun: prosodies
  1. 1.
    the patterns of rhythm and sound used in poetry.
    “the translator is not obliged to reproduce the prosody of the original”
    • the theory or study of prosody.
      “a general theory of prosody”
  2. 2.
    the patterns of stress and intonation in a language.
    “the salience of prosody in child language acquisition”
Origin
late 15th century: from Latin prosodia ‘accent of a syllable’, from Greek prosōidia ‘song sung to music, tone of a syllable’, from pros ‘towards’ + ōidē ‘song’.

Learning the sonnet

A history and how-to guide to the famous form

The sonnet, one of the oldest, strictest, and most enduring poetic forms, comes from the Italian word sonetto, meaning “little song.” Its origins date to the thirteenth century, to the Italian court. Giacomo de Lentini is credited with its invention, though Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) was its most famous early practitioner. The form was adopted and enthusiastically embraced by the English in the Elizabethan period, most notably byShakespeare, who gave it the structure we commonly think of today: 14 lines of rhymed iambic pentameter.

Its tight rhyme scheme and metrical regularity emphasize its musicality, but the sonnet is also thought of as the first poetic form that was intended to be read silently, as opposed to performed and shared: it is “the first lyric of self-consciousness, or of the self in conflict,” according to Paul Oppenheimer in The Birth of the Modern Mind: Self, Consciousness, and the Invention of the Sonnet (1989). As such, the form consists of two parts, often called the proposition and resolution. Dividing them is the volta, or turn. Thus, a problem or question is often presented in the first section of a sonnet and then, via the pivot made by the turn, resolved or given new perspective in the second.

I haunt my familiar spaces

The shops  look all the same to me.
plastic  human models with no heads
are placed in the windows
showing us how we might look
if we bought the latest fashions.

People walk, by dropping paper and cans
some look at me,most don’t
I’m invisible now ,I’m  a ghost.
I haunt my familiar spaces
the library green and the path by the pond

The phone shops tempt us with larg notices:
Only £39 per month for the best
the latest,the new maps and locations
faster access to email and photos.
Look here I am,another selfie.

The only beauty is a pigeon in the sun
and a black man with gentle,luminous eyes
smiling at me as he sweeps away the paper
tossed down by the blinded people
who jabber beside the coffee shop.