Friday Night

It’s Friday night, just gone midnight
And kicking-out time in the town.
As I sit watching from my car,
Deserted pavements teem with life,
And people fill the streets again.

The bearded men from Mosques emerge,
Their Salat done, they’re homeward bound.
While from the pubs the clubbers pour,
Their spirits high as they head off
To taxis waiting in the rain.

On Friday night the cultures cross,
And pass before each other’s eyes,
Invisible, I sit and watch,
This drama, sacred and profane.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Dear Tooth Fairy...

I lost a tooth at school today,
Although I don’t know when or where.
The teacher sent us out to play
And, suddenly, it wasn’t there.

I realised, as I ran about,
There was a gap where it had been,
Somewhere my tooth had just popped out.
I looked but it could not be seen.

So when I go, at last, to bed,
Although my tooth could not be found,
I’ll put this note beside my head,
And hope that I’ll still get a pound.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Photograph taken from srett's photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons licence.

The Rubaiyat of the Reluctant Commuter

The panic starts, I’ve lost my keys,
Until my wife finds them for me,
Then to the car to join the fray,
And off I go, reluctantly.

I make this journey twice a day,
First, off to work to earn my pay,
Then when my servitude is done,
It’s back I go the other way.

Not that I mind once I’ve begun,
Sometimes the journey can be fun,
With music on the radio,
When I’m alone I sing along.

But then I hit a contraflow,
And as the traffic starts to slow,
The DJ says there’s some delay,
But, sadly, I already know.

It looks like I'll be late today,
I should have gone the other way,
Now it’s too late; I’m in the queue,
All I can do is sit and pray.

I might as well admire the view,
No point in feeling stressed or blue,
There’s nothing I can do or say,
Just wait my turn to trickle through.

I drive along the motorway,
I did the same thing yesterday,
Tomorrow morning, guess I’ll be,
Wrapped up in bed; it’s Saturday.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Photograph taken from Lee Haywood's photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons licence.

The poem itself is an interlocking rubaiyat in which the first, second and fourth line rhyme with each other and the third line rhymes with the first, second and forth line of the next stanza and so on. The third line of the final stanza rhymes with the first, second and forth line of the first stanza.  

Playing In The Rain

The cars splash through the puddles on the road,
And send up waves of water that then wash
Across the children’s feet to screams of joy;
While huddled under our umbrellas, we
Will watch with careful eyes their carefree fun,
And wish that we, though older now, could still
Find joy in standing outside in the cold
As cars splash through the puddles in the rain.

© Graeme Williams 2012

My wife, Chris, recorded a video of my children playing in the rain on her mobile 'phone. It provided the inspiration for the poem.

Sonnet for the End of the School Day

The school bell rings to mark the end of day,
And from their classrooms teachers rise and groan.
Some children leave the school in disarray,
And looking at the mess, the cleaners moan.
A brief hubub of noise as kids depart,
Then silence falls upon the corridors,
Outside, the school bus engines all restart,
As children try to pile in through the doors.
Those students whose detention has begun,
Just sit there, glassy eyed, as time goes slow,
They’re waiting 'till their punishment is done.
At last! They’re told that they're allowed to go.
While some staff gripe and all the kids complain,
They’ll soon be back to do it all again.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Twenty (Four) Lines in Iambic Pentameter

I managed to write a lot of poetry just from reading the stuff and looking at websites on the subject and I think I have learnt a lot. However, I wanted to take it further and maybe read around the subject in a more systematic way. With that in mind I recently had a look on Amazon to see what sort of books were available. In the end I bought Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Traveled as the majority of the reviews were positive and, from the excerpt I read online, it didn't seem too highbrow.

Now, this is not a review as I have only just started to read the book. Nevertheless, it has already proved thought provoking as well as informative. I have also tried the exercises that Mr. Fry has set for the budding poet.

One of the first of these exercises is to write a number of lines in Iambic Pentameter. It wasn't supposed to be a poem but, as I continued with the task, I did find a sort of story emerging. So, here is the story of my morning, told in blank verse:

Stephen Fry’s Exercises

Twenty (Four) Lines in Iambic Pentameter

I must decide what I am going to do,
As I don’t have to go to work today,
I could go shopping, as I need new shoes,
Or else I could just waste the day away.

I’m drinking coffee staring at the screen,
Wondering what I’m about to write.
My wife is cooking sausages for me
She’s called me to come through; it’s time to eat….

…Okay, I’m at my keyboard once again,
I’m trying to do a poetry exercise,
It’s from a book I bought by Stephen Fry,
I could just sit here trying to write these lines.

They do get quite addictive to compose,
I doubt that I could write them all at speed,
Ten minutes for all twenty seems quite fast,
I guess I mustn't stop or think too hard.

But when I find I start to doubt myself,
It’s then I have to call a halt and try,
To count the beat upon the wooden desk,
Though when I check I’ve usually done it right.

I wonder if all poets do the same,
Did Dylan Thomas count with bleary eyes,
When he composed his famous Villanelle,
"Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"?