Coming out of the poetry closet…
If you’re interested in exploring how poetry can be used to support learning, teaching and research please get in touch – email s dot watling at hull dot ac dot uk or tweet @suewatling
Some lines that rhyme…
Seven is seven stanzas of seven lines, each with seven syllables. Another appropriate poem for this time of year.
October is the gothic
month. Mildewed roses blacken
Squash cords rot on frozen earth.
Death is wearing tatty rags.
Petals droop while pumpkins glow
and crisp swarovski spiders
spin out crystal studded webs.
Hail All Hallows Eve, when the
sun shrinks and cold space between
the living and the dead fades
to gossamer. Iced air chills.
Veils shiver in the dark, as
ghosts stir, waiting to be hailed
and summoned by the living.
The wheel turns. Icy Mabon
fingers shred the veil between
the worlds. The dead look through the
ragged space, once kissed faces
grey as mould, drained of blood, search
for lovers lost, pleading eyes
desperate with impunity.
Come back my love, look I’ve set
a place for you beside me.
Here are your favourite things, and
see, I’m wearing all the clothes
you liked the best. Come back to
me tonight, let me see your
smile and touch your skin again.
Wet snow kisses melt like dreams
which fade on waking. They say
every flake is different,
and I try to understand,
but the uniqueness of each
complex shape escapes me,
like your presence in my dreams.
Sprinkled with frost diamonds the
earth sleeps, its cold, quiet rest
undisturbed by growth, only
brassicas bear witness to
the intricate complexity
of sugar-peppered iced loam
topped with tiny cabbages.
This is the time clairvoyants
turn to paisley curls of frost
for divination, or skry
flicking flames of fire as they
invoke salamanders to
their charge, and demand they bring
the sun inside for winter.
A pumpkin poem inspired by reports of sabotage in the pumpkin fields of Lincolnshire (the original palimpsest effect doesn’t work in Wordpress)
Oh hail All Hallows Eve and the turning of the year
when spirit lives and spirit breaths
and culling time for pumpkins.
Hail guardians of the watchtowers, archangels of the dead,
raise your swords these witching hours
and please protect our pumpkins.
There are thieves in rural Lincolnshire, who come out after dark,
trampling through the muddy mire
and stealing all our pumpkins.
There are children dangerous and armed, wearing evil faces,
believing they are safe from harm
and slashing at our pumpkins.
There are families with no grace or faith, who really should know better
than risk the wrath and wroth of wraith
by mutilating pumpkins.
Oh hail the annual pumpkin fest, one hundred boring recipes,
an orange feast of orange flesh
and crime against all pumpkins.
Oh hail the world of ghoul and ghost, cast shadows over all.
and chill the bones of those who boast
of doing death to pumpkins.
Oh hail All Hallows Eve and the turning of the year.
when veils between the worlds grow thin and dank dark death draws near,
make your resolutions now, take care of all that lives,
be good to those around you
and always kind to pumpkins.
Ode to the one who got away
If I could, I would have you for breakfast,
spread on hot buttered toast with honey,
stirred into my chocolate with cream.
If I could, I would pack you for lunch.
sliced between bread, slipped in my crisps,
beside something sweet for later.
If I could, I would eat you for dinner,
rubbed with oil, seasoned to taste,
baked in a hot oven with chips.
At night I would take you to bed,
trapped in something red like a Beaujolais;
absorbing you into my bloodstream and
Ode to the ice in my glass
I know the ice in my glass makes a ripple
when mixed with my favourite tipple
but I still need to test
if it works out the best
with a single, a double or triple.
Ode to Phenylalanine
There’s a word which describes
the feeling inside
which you get from a dark chocolate crème
Which chemistry tells us
is down to a dose of
that feel good drug called dopamine
And there can be no doubt
the best sense in the mouth
derives from the cocoa nut bean
So the challenge today
is a word you can say
which rhymes with phenylalanine.
Ode to a Christmas Jumper
The time has come to venture forth,
to leave the land of drawer,
to brace your face for being placed
o’er chests and breasts once more,
to come into the light of day –
hurrah, it’s time again
for exposing Father Christmas
and his reindeer and snowmen,
for laying bare your baubles
and for lighting up your cakes,
your Christmas trees and holly leaves,
your penguins and snowflakes;
it’s time to face the world,
prepare for fun and getting plumper
as your owners take you from the dark
and wear their Christmas jumpers.
It’s a new academic year and the final year of my p/t Creative Writing degree. For the dissertation I’m producing a poetry portfolio based on Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. Earlier this year I began to notice the links between poetry and research. It’s the start of a fascinating journey.
For me, poetry is about language and philosophy. It emerges from observation of reality (however it is experienced) and, within that observance, poetry ponders on how we know it – making ontology and epistemology both poetical concepts. Some early thoughts about the links between poetry and research can be read in a piece called War of the Words (Issue Five Creative Academic Magazine pp 58-60).
... the poet’s cognitive attention to layout, grammar, punctuation, and above all clarity, are essential requirements for the research dissertation and thesis…to be able to write clearly and concisely is the heart of research publication yet the skills of writing-up are woefully neglected. Many of us will have struggled through paragraphs of turgid text, unnecessary words and needing a dictionary, where less would have conveyed the message in half the time and with greater understanding…there is no pleasure in obscurity. The ability to write readable prose is an art which all researchers should be proud to claim as their own.
Creative Academic’s Editor, Norman Jackson, then challenged me to write a ‘poem’ to go alongside the text. This is it…
War of the Words
Now Barthes once said ‘The author is dead’
so I have to let go of my prose,
however redeeming, whatever the meaning,
it’s only the reader who knows
how words which are read (like things that are said)
can take on a whole different meaning,
as issues of who (and knowledge and truth)
depend on who’s doing the reading.
All writers will find, below each bottom line,
there’s a host of mixed interpretations,
with lots to be learned from the postmodern turn
and its crisis in representations.
As we start to unravel the roads we have travelled
which bring us to our destinations
we see how the ‘asks’ in our research-based tasks
are linked to our social locations;
but what matters more are the battles and wars
which are fought between structure and agency,
where so much depends how we manage this blend
between self-hood and who self might want to be.
It’s the same for the poet and life as they know it,
reflected in all their renditions,
where words try to strive, to catch and describe
all the quirks of the human conditions,
so I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s not hard to see
how research and poetry blend,
how issues of seeing, of truth and believing,
are similar things in the end,
and the skillset to write what is clear and concise
is all part of the art of creation,
whether PhD thesis or poetry treatise
they both have the same motivation.
For wordsmiths and seers and text engineers
and dabblers in quests and hypothesis,
for teams of reformers or lonely explorers
of credence and theories of consciousness,
what your words mean (and how they are seen)
is based on the world we’re all living in,
and this knowing in turn depends how we’ve learned
to interpret our social conditioning.
At the end of the day whatever you say
or do to express creativity,
people will moan, they’ll grumble and groan,
for you can’t control their subjectivity.
So I have to conclude all meaning is skewed
as we all possess unique philosophies,
and what we receive and what we believe
helps build our creative ecologies.
Our epistemology and our ontology
all affect our observations,
so you might write the words but it’s clearly absurd
to expect to rule interpretations.
Researcher or poet it’s not how you know it,
it’s all about setting it free,
because Barthes spoke true and whatever you do…
the meaning is all down to me!
To talk poetics please do get in touch. email firstname.lastname@example.org or tweet @suewatling
Ice in my glass https://pixabay.com/en/photos/drinking%20glass/