Homages
 

A thread for, yes, homages.

I wrote this yesterday, for my international poetry group, and thought it might be fun to start a thread here too.

Dylan Thomas, 'Fern Hill'

Eleanor Farjeon, 'Morning Has Broken'

Tina Arena, 'Chains'


Green and golden

I am ginger and grey in my jersey and skirt,
00semi-circled with greys, blonde and brown;
it is sixth form, Eng. Lit.; Mr R.D.B.'s curt,
00tall and tweedy and fierce with his frown.

'Get your books out. Stop dawdling. We don't have much time.
00Dylan Thomas, on page forty-two.
Born in Swansea, like Mrs B. Knows how to rhyme.
00Now, "Fern Hill". And who's reading it? You!'

A long finger is pointed at Holly, who groans,
00'cos she wants to look cool for the clique,
but she reads very well in her clear-and-cloud tones
00and her profile is Gloucester and Greek.

Autumn sunshine spills into the classroom and gleams
00as I enter the famous fern farm,
to escape adolescence, its difficult dreams,
00and to shelter, to play, without harm.

'Over here! Let's climb trees!' He's my brothers, this boy,
00and we climb and we laugh and we sing;
he's the prince, I'm just me, but I have a grand toy:
00that is Koala, the furry-faced king.

Well, I don't want to hunt, but I happily herd
00and I splash in the streams of the Lord;
and at night come the hoots of the barn-dwelling bird
00and the nightjars and all, chord on chord.

At first light, I hear blackbirds as well as the cock
00and the whinnying horses, so warm;
there's a song from the fields, from a little white flock,
00it's the lamb in his wonder-wool form.

We rush out, me and boy, and King Koala, to play,
00but our time is too short; I'm in chains.
I am 16 and Tina Arena and grey
00and already have arthritic pains.

Fliss, that’s one of my all-time favorites, influential in drawing me into poetry, especially in his recorded readings. I like the adapting and adopting of his images for your own conclusions. (I only go Dylanesque in the shower!). Here’s one echoing Dylan from yesteryear:


After Dylan Thomas: "Do not go gentle into that good night"

Do Not Stay Sober on a Friday Night

Do not stay sober on a Friday night:
The young and thirsty dudes then flush with pay
Cheer, cheer there will be partying tonight.

Dull guys who think that night’s for love are right,
And having learned dry words scare girls away,
Do not stay sober on a Friday night.

Good dudes, the few still sane, are very bright,
Aware good deeds get punished every day,
Cheer, cheer there will be partying tonight.

Wild guys, like Icarus, who favored light,
Soon knowing that from sun they’ll dry and fry,
Do not stay sober on a Friday night.

Grave dudes in Rome, wine drunk with blurry sight,
Eyes round like bocce balls for games they play
Cheer, cheer there will be partying tonight.

Suave guy within the back-bar mirror’s twilight,
My twin forever, smiles as we both say,
Do not stay sober on a Friday night,
Cheer, cheer there will be partying tonight.


A pastiche from My Miscellaneous Muse

Here's another. This one's by Les Murray, who came over to Wales and wrote this while he was here.

Vindaloo In Merthyr Tydfil

The first night of my second voyage to Wales,
tired as rag from ascending the left cheek of Earth,
I nevertheless went to Merthyr in good company
and warm in neckclothing and speech in the Butcher's Arms
till Time struck us pintless, and Eddie Rees steamed in brick lanes
and under the dark of the White Tip we repaired shouting

to I think the Bengal. I called for curry, the hottest,
vain of my nation, proud of my hard mouth from childhood,
the kindly brown waiter wringing the hands of dissuasion
O vindaloo, sir! You sure you want vindaloo, sir?
But I cried Yes please, being too far in to go back,
the bright bells of Rhymney moreover sang in my brains.

Fair play, it was frightful. I spooned the chicken of Hell
in a sauce of rich yellow brimstone. The valley boys with me
tasting it, croaked to white Jesus. And only pride drove me,
forkful by forkful, observed by hot mangosteen eyes,
by all the carnivorous castes and gurus from Cardiff
my brilliant tears washing the unbelief of the Welsh.

Oh it was a ride on Watneys plunging red barrel
through all the burning ghats of most carnal ambition
and never again will I want such illumination
for three days on end concerning my own mortal coil
but I signed my plate in the end with a licked knife and fork
and green-and-gold spotted, I sang for my pains like the free
before I passed out among all the stars of Cilfynydd.

Thanks for posting, Ralph and Ann :-)

Ralph, I'm pleased you like my attempt and I like the various dudes throughout the villanelle, if that's the right term.

Ann, I particularly like 'the chicken of Hell / in a sauce of rich yellow brimstone'. It reminds me of curry nights while I lived in Selly Oak, lol.

My next one is inspired by Eiluned Lewis's 'We Who Were Born' (posted on Poets' Graves perhaps a couple of years ago). Of course King Curlew is not to be confused with King Koala.


King Curlew

Let's go and see
a lordly thing –
in marshy realms,
a splendid king;
he wears a robe
of grey and gold,
his nose is keen,
his eyes are bold.

By day he wades
the marshland dregs
on long-toed feet
below slim legs;
he spears a crab
within the mud
and has his feast
of flesh and blood.

His bed is bare
till February,
that's when he calls
Cur-lee! Cur-lee!
He lures a lady
to his home;
they'll raise four heirs
in richest loam.