It’s a text a neighbour sent to me at home

A robot voice came out my landline phone
A computer was the first to speak today
Via a text a neighbour sent to me at home

This voice is affectless and cannot groan
Makes inhuman noises quite unlike a prayer
This robot voice came out my landline phone

It sounds like a someone with  a heart of stone
Yt gives a message uninspired and spare
Via a text a neighbour sent to me at home

At least it did not linger on or moan
Wittgenstein  might like the saying bare
Of a robot voice  from out a  landline phone

There is no accent, variation, tone
Essential in its lonely  act of care
This  text a neighbour sent to me at home

The wolf may howl, the fox sleep in his lair
The cat mioaw, the dog bark  on the stair
A  flat cold voice   was on my landline phone
It’s a text a neighbour sent to me at home

Love and hate laid bare

IMG_0038

My villanelle is better sung in words
The tune can be invented as we hum
I sing of love and flowers and summer birds

The gift of language springs from sounds we heard
Mother,father, sister here they come
My villanelle is sweeter sung in words

There is also hatred,love deferred.
Intimacy’s pains are now well known
Why sing of love and flowers and summer birds?

To control my own black heart I am prepared
For seeds with hatred watered too well grow
My villanelle is made to growl in words

From the News much evil has been shared
Yet goodness and true virtue can be shown
So sing of habits loved and high flown birds

Practise love until your skills are honed
Accept your hate but let it not be shown
My villanelle is better sung in words
Sing of love and hate and how we dare

In truth,I’ve never lied

His act perfected,speeches memorised
He looked upon her visage and made eyes
Why do you stare at me, she questioned him
Do you wish to take me to the gym?

I never knew we could in such gyms play
Exercise makes people feel so gay
Are you gender fluid,she replied
No,I’m not,in truth I’ve never lied

I only want to flirt and dance and sing
On hearing this a wasp gave him a sting
Oh, he cried,I feel my end is nigh
I fear I’ll be cremated  if I die.

Like a fool, he malice felt all night
By  morning he was dead from  his own spite

Then to love he came

My friend misread my posts between the lines
So he accused me of a dreadful crime
He said he was from the top echelon
As  far as I could see, he was far gone

He told me off for  moaning at his words
In which just four rude letters  did appear
It seemed I must be chaste  enough for two
While  he would carry on as such men do

My face must always smile and never frown
I must  obtain some silken dressing gowns
I  should  take rather risque photographs
On hearing this, my  tortoiseshell  cat laughed

It seems I did not fit inside his frame
He cut my head off, then to love he came

Nor click my fingers while the cat’s eye blinks

A nod is  good for I can never wink
Nor click my fingers while the cat’s eye blinks
I do not read between the lines as yet
But I can read a face and place a bet

Do you find it hard to signal love?
Does your lover wear a rubber glove?
Non-verbal signals are a tiresome pest
In mathematics, we avoid them in our tests

If you speak to me , be plain I beg
So far, I never got to work on eggs.
I need exact instructions as I fear
Being belted  hard for making Father swear

I ask only that you respect my core
And enter my world only by the door.

Is it wrong?

Is it wrong to hate him for his face
His temper  and his  vicious  comments  show
And we can read the lies he has embraced

No finger of my hand would wish to trace
The petulant smirk, the lines which rage has drawn
Is it wrong to judge him by his face?

Is my judgement  wrong  to see menace
Where others might see merely a man’s frown
Still we read the lies he has embraced

Yet is it not the people’s lack of grace
To give an Empire to an enraged clown
Is it wrong to judge him by his face?

Remember how a child will hide her face
When she’s down wrong and fears to be brought down?
Yet he hides nothing from his  bold fraught face

Our children reap what men like this have sown
There’ll be no help when we’re all overdrawn
Is it wrong to turn from his grim face
Where we can read the hatred he’s embraced

Poetry, nods and winks

adveniatregnumtuam1.jpg

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/jason-holmes/poetry-art-form_b_6031180.html

Extract:

“Poetry is about subtlety and signals, about nods and winks, so the minute somebody gets up and starts braying loudly in polemical terms is often the antithesis of what defines poetry,” he says. “The loud hailer approach doesn’t serve poetry well. Poetry is the art form that tries to think before it speaks.”

With poetry, one can also say the unsayable and make it be heard, and with the UK’s national curriculum embracing the form, Armitage adds: “Relatively speaking, poetry reading has been a marginalised activity of the British public. But this is one of the reasons I went into it. Most poets have made a conscious effort to step aside from something that’s more mainstream.”

His literary powers stretch to novel writing and theatrical drama, but he wants to concentrate on poetry because “it’s a rare form that delights and excites me”, he says, adding that poetry is a dissenting art. “I don’t see poetry and theatre as being completely unconnected. In some ways I think of theatre as the origin of poetry.”

Sue Townsend once described him as a celebrator of the real world, much like another English writer to whom Armitage has been compared: Alan Bennett. “We do different things, but I take that I’ve been compared with him as a huge compliment because he’s one of this country’s most gifted writers. He has strong political opinions which he transmits through continuous ongoing writing. He’s almost a Samuel Pepys-type character. I love his common touch and if that’s the area of comparison, then I appreciate it.”

In 2008, Armitage also strayed tastefully and with wry humour into the rock world when he wrote a short prose poem for Paul Weller’s 22 Dreams album booklet entitled The Missing Dream: “I was thrilled to do it,” he says of the request, but is quick to make a distinction. “Pop songs aren’t poems, they’re lyrics. Poems exist just as language. They don’t have vocal delivery, they don’t have a backbeat or harmonies. They’re just words. What you find when you take away the music from a song is that you have a bad poem, often with mixed metaphor and hypermetric syllables. But that’s not a criticism of their art because lyric writing is incredibly difficult, but it’s music that gives it its power.”

Growing up reading Ted Hughes, Larkin, Thom Gunn, Sylvia Plath and the Beat Generation poets influenced him greatly. “I was drawn to the style. I’m not sure poets have anything different to say than novelists, but it’s the manner in which things are said that makes them different. The attraction was the economy and compact nature of the language of poetry.”