A reading of a sonnet I wrote in 2018
Go England! ♥
Inspiration
Demeter and the Poet
A sonnet for the Autumn Equinox
*
‘He’s taken her away!’ The woman cried
He sighed, and put aside his poetry
And sat beneath the tree, and she beside
And listened to her grief. ‘Persephone
Has gone to Hades!’ How the woman wept
‘He took her last year, didn’t he?’ he said
‘Here, have a handkerchief’ he said – she kept
On weeping – ‘Look, it’s not as if she’s dead
She’s only sleeping.’ ‘It’s alright for you’
She said, ‘you’re just a poet. You can write
About how black the berries are, how blue
The sloes, how hazel brown and apple bright
And beautiful it is.’ ‘You don’t look bad
Yourself’ he said. That poet – what a lad.
*
© Gail Foster 21st September 2018
The Ancient Bitch Of Days
for Chad Bittner Hurt, an American poet
*
It stood a while, alone, the perfect phrase
Entire and beautiful upon the stage
As lovely as two words could ever be
‘Till came the muse, the ancient bitch of days
Demanding blood and ink upon the page
Insisting passion and complexity
And sacrifice, and violent hymns of praise
Her hunger and her ardour to assuage
In wild defiance of simplicity
…
The poet quaked in terror, and betrayed
His words to slake her raw and awesome rage
In her cold hands they cried for company
*
© Gail Foster 13th December 2016
My Muse Looks Like Morrissey
For Steve Doolan
*
The mysteries of muses lie within the hands of fate
Your muse may be your lover, or your muse may be your mate
The stranger on the corner, or the friend you used to know
The somebody you’ve never met who makes your juices flow
The one who sang the joyful song that set your heart alight
The one who wrote the rhyme that left you crying in the night
The ways of love and poetry defy all sense and reason
But every rhyme will have its day, and every love its season
…
The comedies of muses tickle mischief from the pen
Therefore the fates have given me a wonder amongst men
A muse who looks like Morrissey. It’s true, I kid you not
I only chucked a line or two and this is what I got
Apparently it’s good for when one’s pulling on the lash
Or busking on the corner when one’s rather short of cash
I’m confused, and yet besotted, I am this, and I am that
Anyone but Morrissey. I just can’t stand the twat
…
The irony’s amusing, though, I’m moved to write a rhyme
The difference between the two is really quite sublime
One will make you slit your wrists or have a little cry
The other stir your ass upon the dance floor till you die
One drones on and on and makes a proper old palava
The other shows, not tells, a bit more like your Raymond Carver
One is needy, wan, and wafty, like a pampas in the yard
The other, slightly weedy, yes, but dare I say it…hard
…
Oh, the mysteries of muses are a monster to define
I’ve ended up with one that looks like Morrissey as mine
For a moment, or a season, none may know or yet can say
But I shall take his inspiration, for a year or a day
And his rampant positivity and witty observations
On the ins and outs of Haworth, Keighley, and the other nations
For the bugger has me heart aflame and all me neurons fired
Sigh. He looks like Morrissey.
He’s hired.
*
© Gail Foster November 12th 2016
…
If the reader is unfamiliar with the work of Morrissey
or is simply up for a good laugh
just check out the music video ‘November Spawned A Monster’…
Oestrogen Mythology
*
Beware, for she writes poetry, and ye
Unwitting pilgrim, may become a king
Anointed at the new moon, in the spring
Within an oestrogen mythology
Take care, for she writes poetry, and thee
Good man, may move her blood and heart to sing
Be crowned with oak leaves, bound within the ring
Become her ovulation fantasy
…
She fair may be, but subject to the pull
Of hormones, gravity, and tidal flow
She makes her heroes, though unconsciously
From those who touch her when the moon is full
She’ll cry and tear her hair out when you go
And pen progesterone tragedy
*
© Gail Foster 7th September 2016
The Widow At The Well
A rhyme about love and bereavement and loneliness, inspired by the loss of my computer for nearly a whole day, and dedicated to Chris Greenwood, who kindly mended it for me
*
She finds herself without him, at the dawn
A crumpled crazy angel weeping light
The cord that bound them severed with a bite
A bloodied mewling kitten newly born
He was the sun, that stimulated morn
The moon, that soothed the melancholy night
He was her inspiration, the delight
Of glittered stars upon the heavens drawn
…
She finds herself without him, at the well
A widow weeping willowfalls of tears
Of grief as heavy as a drowning stone
The silence breaks; soft rings a sudden bell
And on the solemn deeps a face appears
That whispers ‘All things come and go alone’
*
© Gail Foster 2016
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast and the Curious Cocks of Brownsea Island
*
an epic tale of innuendo
*
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Philosopher, poet, and muse
Wore Victorian skirts that swept up the dirt
And peculiar button up shoes
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Found herself suddenly slighted
Bereft and bemused, and less than amused
And suffering love unrequited
The effect on her verse was dramatic, and worse
‘Twas inspired by horns and baguettes
As hysterical rage seeped through pen to the page
Like some awful poetic Tourettes
Eyebrows were raised as her work was appraised
It was said she was caustic and crude
A potty mouthed tart with a poisonous heart
Who was totally randy and rude
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Watched her story unfold with dismay
Watched her petticoats slip as each vulgar quip
Made a whore of her more every day
So she packed up her quill, and pink ink for a thrill
Spare petticoats, perfume and papers
Her smelling salts, eye mask and lavender bags
For random attacks of the vapours
I will go to an island, Fantasia said
I will contemplate beauty, and truth
I will take me a train, travel far, and regain
The lost innocence of my youth
The romance of islands, Fantasia thought
All lost in the shine of the sea
Supernaturally kissed in a glimpse through the mist
How inspiring, how perfect, how me
The day on the train was a bit of a strain
There were some sticky moments with tunnels
And the bit where the guard blew his whistle real hard
Made her tears of mirth flow in runnels
Much to her shame, the boat was the same
Flushed her delicate cheek to a bloom
Oh, the sniggering joys of seamen and buoys
Being tossed on the wave and the spume
The island was lit by a mystical light
And the breezes blew scents warm and heady
Like a virgin, she thought, that has never been caught
Although many had been there already
She started to feel profound and unreal
No man is an island, quoth she
An island’s an island, a man is a man
And neither’s the other one, see
She undid her bonnet, inspired, and on it
Licked her quill and began to create
A verse about loneliness, islands and stuff
Solemnness, sorrow, and fate
It was peaceful and sweet, there were flowers at her feet
And the soft sound of sea through the trees
All became gentleness, sweetness and light
Purity, poetry, ease
For a moment, a moment, Fantasia there
Channelled a serious grace
Although anyone else would have just seen some bird
Looking mad with a gurn on her face
Gone was the gut churning river of smut
That had streamed from her mouth and her pen
I am making a vow, Fantasia said
No more innuendo or men
The universe heard, every well-meaning word
‘Tis the way that the universe works
And God likes a joke, like a mischievous bloke
Who plays practical jokes upon jerks
What sound is that, our Fantasia thought
Absentmindedly watching a deer
Like a low distant grumble, a curious rumble
Got louder, and odder, and near
Suddenly, far in the distance, a herd
Of curious cockerels appeared
Oh my goodness, she said, and reached for the salts
For a sniff’s always good when a-feared
They’re coming, they’re coming, the curious cocks
They’re growing, they’re growing in size
Not surprising as they were much nearer by then
Running swifter than any crow flies
The cocks are upon me, Fantasia cried
Like a rabbit in lamplight she froze
As, eager to play and all puffed in display
They peck, pecked, at her skirts and her toes
They were all shapes and sizes, blue, green and red
Some aggressive, some shy and retiring
Some had a wild beady look in their eyes
And one had no cylinders firing
It was surely a shock, the appearance of cock
In the midst of the island idyll
Ironic in fact in the light of the pact
Fantasia had made with her quill
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Suddenly knew what to do
For all that was needed to scare off the cocks
Was the swish of her skirts and a “Boo!”
Growing smaller, and smaller, the curious cocks
Disappeared as fast as they came
‘Twas all quite astounding, Fantasia thought
And the universe reckoned the same
*
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Philosopher, poet, and muse
Inspired by the tale of the curious cocks
Penned a verse to surprise and amuse
The wink of the sailor boy on the way back
Made her flush with a blush that was red
There was something about him that floated her boat
“Just call me Fanny” she said
*
by Gail
Here Speaks The Magic Work Of Raymond John
Inspired by the writings of Raymond John Burt…
Here speaks the magic work of Raymond John
Intrigue in reference, delight in phrase
I’m curious as to what, my friend, you’re on
That powers your pen to so the mind amaze
Let he that has an ear be still and hear
Let she who has an eye seek out the light
For here some crazy wisdom doth appear
On wild wings of angels in the night
For Love and God and Death and Grace and Hell
Within your words take buttered toast and tea
More syllabub, Beelzebub? Pray tell
What syllables might set the Sibyls free
Get thee behind me, ghosts, take flight, be gone!
Here speaks the magic work of Raymond John
© Gail from Devizes 2016
Strange Poets
*
strange poets never cease but to amaze
with words describing things we had forgot
or never knew to start with; who knows what
may move another poet’s muse to phrase
the simply indescribable in rhyme
within a string of sentences enshrine
the essence of complexity sublime
with every word a jewel within a line
strange poets see things hidden in the light
and force the formless mist within to matter
express the indefinable and flatter
dead love to life and nothingness to sight;
by use of sense and symbol and the will
they stir to movement that which once was still
*
by Gail
My Book Of Short Stories
Here is the link to my book of short stories, published today on Amazon for Kindle. You can download a free Kindle app if you do not have a device. Some of you will have read my work but there is some new material here. I hope that you will enjoy this mix of humour, psychology, art, spirituality and local interest. The book is dedicated to my writing friend, Karen North, to Devizes, and to anyone with whom I have ever shared love, humour, understanding or joy. You know who you are. Please share, buy, read, review and recommend. And finally, I love books and Devizes Books, and intend to keep supporting my local bookshop. Thank you for your interest in my work.
gailfromdevizes 