There Was A Young Lady Called Lorraine

There was a young lady called Lorraine
Who’s character lacked any stain.
An old rake named Paul
Said “most girls fall,
But I can not conquer Lorraine!”.

There was a young lady called Lorraine
Who’s character lacked any stain.
While on her wedding bed
She most properly said
“My virtue I shall retain!”.

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Lessons

Flirts
In short
Skirts
And heels.
Life steals
Away in ththoughts
Of “did” and “ought”.

No lessons are taught
To he who bought
The girl in the short
Dress’s time for a while.
Her smile
And a caress
That ends in distress.

Free Verse: The Poetry Book Fair (Sunday 23 September 2018)

On Sunday 23 September, the Poetry Book Fair takes place in London.

Publishers of free verse will be present as will the Poetry Society.

For details please visit, http://www.poetrybookfair.com/

Hocking

A young lady by the name of Hocking
Was always my poetry mocking.
When she passed away
I’m sorry to say
That her end was truly shocking …

There was a young lady called Hocking
Who lost a fine silk stocking.
A vicar named Hogg
Owned a large black dog
Which ate that fine silk stocking …

The silence of the girls

Letters from Athens

Greek children are brought up on mythology—the shenanigans of the gods on Mount Olympus, the battles of the Trojan war, the travels and adventures in the Odyssey. However, although I knew how the story ends, I really enjoyed this backstage view of the Iliad by Pat Barker. 

The tale is told from the point of view of Briseis, a princess who becomes a slave, awarded to Achilles as his prize after he sacks her city, slaughtering her father and brothers. She ends up in the camp of the Greeks besieging Troy, together with many other women. This is their voice, their side of things. 

Pat Barker is a master of writing about war, as evidenced in her Regeneration Trilogy—the reek, the noise, the far-flung effects on everyone involved, however remotely. Here we are placed firmly in the camp—we see the cooking fires, smell smoke and roasting…

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The Evening Falls

The evening falls.
Bird calls
Gradually fade.
The woodland glade
Resounds to the owl’s cry.

I sigh
And read on.
Another day has gone.
And now tis poetry
And me.

(The birds of the day are, to my mind, very different from the owl. As day ends, the night bird resumes his throne, and the birds of the day are silent until the morrow).