NaPoWriMo #23: Rivers of Coal

Up in the hills where the collieries sleep,
where the railway tracks are submerged in moss,
the wheels atop the tower seem to weep
the stones in the blacksmith's yard are all glossed
in a dwindling frost fleeing from the spring.
Caverns beneath the hills vast and still,
adorning the grey cliffs to which they cling,
sheltering sheep against the mountain chill.
The descendants live in the past's shadow
claim the ruins for their own, make them new,
no longer the halls where molten fires flow
but a monument to the mining crew.
Within these hills run the rivers of coal
that brought to the valleys their heart and soul

(And so, to celebrate the birthday of his majesty the Shakespeare, I bring you a sonnet about that most familiar of Welsh subjects.)

NaPoWriMo #20: Sibilance

Silently sitting on a stone,
singing songs of sorrow and woe,
seething with symptoms of sanguine symphonies
of soaring skylines and scorching savannahs,
searing sentinels on stony statues,
silent as souls surrounded by shame
and the savage set-piece of sharks in the sea
slicing seals and soliciting sneers
from sinuous sardines who see but don't smile,
sinuses of snakes suffocated by soot,
all in sundry and sonatas,
sonnets strung simultaneously
as it seems in a single sentence.

NaPoWriMo #11: Twmbarlwm Tribe

The spring light bathes the ancient Celtic fort,
a forgotten tump sat atop a peak.
Nondescript, no markings of which to speak,
yet within its walls are tales of a sort.
The Romans on the plain would try and thwart
the tribe from the woods playing hide and seek.
Against the legion their prospects were bleak,
but on top of the hill they held court,
decided to make the forest their shield.
Subterfuge became their weapon of choice,
they'd strike and disappear into the green
to the phalanx of Rome they'd never yield.
A sentry on the hill yells at full voice,
the army approaches but not unseen.

NaPoWriMo #4: Sleet

The weather's not sure, should it rain or snow?
It's supposed to be April, time for spring,
but it seems the forecasters don't know
that spring sunshine can be a fickle thing.
 year's worth of frozen ice falls en masse.
For anyone out in the open air,
they should've just given this one a pass,
for the sleet will bring its wrath to bare
on all humans, mammals and birds alike.
Ice in my shoes, in my coat, up my nose,
what madness told me to try and hitchhike
through such freezing chaos I'll never know.
    Be sure to check the next weather forecast.
    You can never be sure if spring will last.

NaPoWriMo #5: The Lost Starling

The starling sat in the weathered oak tree
without the chirping voices of his flock.
Lost and confused and very late for tea,
he thought he might find them down by the docks.
He asked every bird on the waterfront,
from seagulls to terns to the grey heron.
After a while the starling took a punt
and followed the canal to the barrens.
There he found his flock, bristling in a tree.
When dusk fell, the starlings began to sing
and took to the air in a fluent stream,
dancing as the sun was slowly dimming.
Darkness fell and a half moon ascended,
the lost starling's search had at last ended.

NaPoWriMo #2: Rhythm and Verse and All Things Worse

So we start a new poem,
a stream of verse,
and with a rhyme scheme we begin to converse.

But how about going with the flow,
less of a structure and more of a never-ending discourse?
'Yes,' said the Poet-in-Chief, 'That's a good idea.'
But how many lines, what sort of syllabic construct should we use?

'It doesn't matter really,'

said

the Poet

-in-

Chief.

'Oh look at that, you've got the tense mixed up again.
Pick one for the next stanza and stick with it.'

Here goes a present tense poem,
tricky, but I'll try and hold 'em.
All those phrases, hundreds of them,
waiting to be placed in line.
Not a place for feeble writing,
you can try or go down fighting,
without additional lighting,
you can write some Allan Poe,
write Edgar Allan Poe meters,
the type would-be poets know,
such wondrous verse with the flow.

What about the villanelle, my old friend?
When free verse leads your meter astray,
can this tremendous form make amends?

Dylan Thomas knew, this was his trend,
he knew the power the form could convey,
what about the villanelle, my old friend?

Perhaps the sonnet could clear this mess up?
The form of love, strife, effective verse.
Good old Shakespeare used them in his line-up,
he had over a hundred in his purse
to be used when love or grief would beckon
and all his inner thoughts came spilling out,
though there are many scholars who reckon
they're not sure who he was talking about.
Yet it's handy for writing poetry quick,
the sonnet's short, rhymes and has great rhythm.
It's concise, lyrical, short and succinct,
a wonderful, potent algorithm.
Yet I wonder if we're viewing this wrong?
Let's try another form to end this song.

When all's said and done, verse is the worst,
so many meters and forms to rehearse.
Still, you can use any form or none at all
when you ride down the poetry waterfall.

New Poetry Video Live and Other Updates

Hi guys.

Just wanted to let you know that a video version of 'Sonnet from Stratford', a poem I wrote for NaPoWriMo, has just gone live. Click on the link here to watch it. I hope you enjoy it.

In other news, I have almost completed the next installment of Frynwys Features, which is a fairly tricky task due to the slow nature of news in the village. Still, despite the rather dull pace of life here, there are still stories to be found and you'll be finding out what those are in due course.

I can also confirm that more poetry is in the works, along with an analysis of Owen Sheers' 'Mametz Wood', in preparation for my own poem about the battle. I'm hoping to do more features about individual poets on this blog so be sure to stick around for that.

Those are all the updates I can think of for now, but if there are any more I'll be sure to let you know.

Anyways, enjoy the new video and I'll see you all soon.

NaPoWriMo 2017 Completed

So that's it. After thirty days' ceaseless formulating and writing poems, I've finally completed NaPoWriMo 2017. It's been a long challenge indeed, but looking back on what I've written this last month, I can safely say it was an unqualified success (unqualified due to my inexperience at this kind of challenge).

What strikes me looking through my NaPoWriMo catalogue is how the challenge forces you to think on your feet while writing and searching for ideas. While I had my usual tropes to fall back on - tiger poems, animal poems, poems about Wales - I've branched out into new territory with some of the other poems I've done. We've had poems about catfish, we've had poems about chimpanzees, we've had poems about worms, we've had poems about Bugatti, we've had sonnets, and we've had poems written in trochaic octameter. All in all NaPoWriMo has forced me to go outside my comfort zone a bit, which is a great stage of development for any writer.

Due to the fact that NaPoWriMo isn't so much about quality as about quantity, the constant demand to produce a poem a day for a month has been a bit tiring. Still, I think it has strengthened my writing abilities, as it has with many others whose work I've been seeing. For my first completed NaPoWriMo, it's been quite a good ride and I look forward to taking the challenge on again when it comes around next year.

In the meantime, I've got a few things approaching fast on this blog. There will be more poems as usual in the next week or two, another instalment of my newest feature, Frynwys Features, and more updates on the long-gestating Mametz Wood project.

To all of you who participated in NaPoWriMo 2017, well done and good luck for the future!

NaPoWriMo #23: Sonnet from Stratford

It seems the end is in sight for this year's NaPoWriMo, but there's still a fair way to go. I've just returned from Stratford-upon-Avon where I visited William Shakespeare's birthplace and his new place. Seeing as today is his 401st birthday, here's a sonnet about how I felt while wandering around his garden.

Sonnet from Stratford

I find myself in a poet's garden,
a vibrant and complex oasis
where every flower is as ardent
as the meanings they gifted to this
poet of poets who heard the dawn lark
and decided that one could not face it,
the morning arrived to cast out the dark,
the grasp of the mortal coils which trace it,
a strange world where all who seek to explore
and profit from its bounty, the question
for the poet sat outside his back door
to answer in words with no digression.
  Now I hear those words as spoken today
  and seek for answers lest they go astray.

A Mink in Somerset

The old mink escaped the farm on Thursday
not knowing why he was there at all.
He wandered over grass and through hay
until he reached the river and without a glance
dived in, a black slither on azure glass.
Not one to go hungry he looked to eat,
and found none, confined with no way to pass.
The mallard did not see death till she was meat.
The daggers severed her thoughts from her heat.
Not to worry, her unused dreams would feed
another's, and fuel their endless hunger.
A once green bank becomes cloaked in seeds.
The predator once a prisoner sleeps,
hoards and fattens on bones of voles and geese.

(This sonnet was written earlier this year.)