I don’t remember having to learn any poetry at school, not that this is a criticism, being forced to read it back then would probably have put me off for life.
So a mother who thought I should be exposed to a little culture instead employed a type of drip drip technique. ‘Look Jimmy isn’t that clever?’ As she pushed towards me an open page of ‘Palgraves Golden Treasury,’ that sort of thing.
Somewhere along the way this drip dripping must have permeated my otherwise resistant brain and I found myself picking up poetry books unprompted. These early permiations however have stuck firmly in the old grey matter and all have influenced both the poetry I enjoy reading today and the poetry I write myself. So here it is then, my introductory poem for this blog. At least you will know where I am coming from.
My Favourite Poets
So many poets I enjoy
to list them all would just annoy.
But if I had to list the best,
that’s not to disregard the rest.
Then out in front is Alfred Noyce,
quietly read in mother’s voice.
Bess waits beneath a ghostly moon,
her highwayman’s return, too soon.
And Oscar Wilde in Reading’s cell
although he’s in a living hell
can write a ballad so sublime,
perhaps it helped him pass the time.
There’s Robert Frost beside a wood
his tired pony, gladly stood.
Both wishing they could rest a while.
stopped by the unforgiving mile.
Hilaire Belloc’s child Matilda,
lied, till in the end it killed her.
He then, in soft contrasting truth
remembers Sussex and his youth.
Kipling! Now I speak with passion.
Tales of daring without ration.
Mandalay’s road, now worn so thin
by Danny Deever and Gunga Din.
Tommy Atkins, the show couldn’t see
appealing to the old soldier in me.
And who now, in all honesty,
the simple truth of “If” can’t see?
Bob Dylan, now that’s raised some eyes
but not from me, there’s no surprise.
His words inspire me every time
I’m skipping to his reels of rhyme.
Now with his music in my mind,
I find a rhythm of a kind
then simply find the words to fit.
It’s what I’m doing now. That’s it!
