[F.F. Teague]

🍓🍓🍓

It's a great poem, John. I didn't have the opportunity to learn Greek during my school years, complete with squash and biscuit, lol.

Thanks for enjoying my poem; I hadn't thought about the 'sphere in connection with it. Yes, Planet F mght not be entirely without attractions, not least the billow-birds :>)

I enjoyed reading your latest poem too. I know the ode by Wordsworth and I like your description of embarking on sleep. S2 is also strong and I love 'close as tails on coins' in S3. It's nice you include Mrs I, and I like the Octavio quotation and reference to Penelope at the end.

The poem about the sun turned out to be a little thing, so I'm posting one of my dream-poems too. It's from my dream diary :-)


If Sun be faith, my sun is Coo,
my little colombine,
who often likes to cheer, 'Woo-hoo!'
in tones that sound divine.

She neither burns nor freezes me –
my heart is always warm;
she smiles and shines tenaciously
through wind and rain and storm.

And in my darkest hours of pain,
she shimmers at my side
to soothe my ills, my anxious brain,
bright beaked and twinkly eyed.

🕊🕊🕊

Boing

I wake up
in bed

and find my legs
have been replaced
with large yellow rubbery constructions,
ending in orange duck-feet.

I'm puzzled,
but really rather pleased;
the rubber-legs are heavy
yet very flexible
and I think
I might be able
to boing.

I get out of bed
and boing head first
into a wheelie bin.

😵 ...woken by pseudo-sensation of headbang.

- - -
Tomorrow: another dream-poem.

[F.F. Teague]

Lendings

i am on the landing
in the family home.

I glance out of the window
and spot
John Lennon
making his way
across the field.

He's wearing his white suit
but no shoes
and his hair
hangs over his face.

He enters the garden
through a hedge
and continues walking
towards the greenhouse.

I really want to meet
John Lennon,
so I rush down the stairs
and try to find my slippers
so I can go outside.

Where are they?
There they are,
under the table
in the lounge.

I'm pleased.
I shout:
SLIPPERS!
SLIPPERS!
SLIP-

😵 ...woken by silent shouting,

Tomorrow: bird-themed sonnet.

[John Isbell]

Hi Fliss,

I think I particularly enjoy your rhymed poetry, so your sun piece does not sail under my radar. I like it. Thank you for your comments on Penelope et al; I like our chats as well. One thing you do in your free verse that I suspect would be harder in meter is this splendid thing:

I really want to meet
John Lennon,

which reminds me a bit of this old thing for some reason:

The Boston Evening Transcript
BY T. S. ELIOT

The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.

When evening quickens faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript."

Regards,
John

[F.F. Teague]

🍹🍪

That's squash and a biscuit for you, John. Yes, it's actually a cocktail, but you can have a non-alcoholic concoction if you wish :-)

I think most people prefer the rhymed stuff. I certainly enjoy writing it more than attempting blank verse, which always feels unfinished to me. That's odd, because I seldom feel that way about other poets' non-met. Ho hum.

You're welcome for my comments; I think chatting is good, as it can spark extra ideas. I'm glad you like the bit about John Lennon, lol. I have quite a selection of dream-poems :-)

Here's the sonnet I mentioned. It's a summary sonnet, so possibly rather compact, although I do flesh out the themes in other work within a series. It's about a relationship between N, 22, and a solicitor at the law firm where they both work, who is quite a lot older. The Promenade is a posh part of town; the aviation age occurs in Shropshire, his home county.


To take flight

His love, 'If love,' he sighed, had 'hatched too quick',
00for he'd prefer us walled in stony shell
designed to shatter slowly, silent, slick –
00matured contentment in a measured cell.
I kept from fledging, though I longed for flight
00above the promenade of suits and heels
where he feared frowns and whispers might alight
00to spike his smooth repute, career ideals.
Once swept from threats of scandal and disgrace,
00he let us wanderlust in sunset skies
with wings spread warmly, awe upon his face
00for caution spurned, then joy on its demise.
Just seven days, our aviator age;
he bound us safe for home, stuffed in a cage.

🐣🐣🐣

I'm rushing off now as an aunt needs a chat, but shall be back at some stage. Tomorrow: lyrics. I think :-)

[John Isbell]

Hi Fliss,

Just a quick note to say the ending is brutal, particularly perhaps for someone who spent the last four years in a suburb of McAllen, Texas. It’s a striking ending.

[F.F. Teague]

Thanks, John;

Yes, I needed striking and brutal and I'm glad this comes across. Thanks for reading the poem :-)

[F.F. Teague]

🌞🌞🌞

Now I'm taking a trip, specifically to the Scilly Isles, posting the first poem in the Scilly series. It's spoken, cha-cha-CHING, with a pause at the end of each even line. It's very much a Planet F. poem.

Performance notes: I perform this myself, using my natural voice for narration, super-clear high-pitched tone for Coo, Gloucestershire accent for FT, and something strident for the mossops. The problem is, I can't stop laughing. Coo & Co offices are my studio room.

There's a photo of the mossops here :-)


St Mary's Mossops

In the Coo & Co offices, up in the trees,
00there are shelves of quite serious books,
but above Aristotle, Plato, Sophocles,
00stand some knick-knacks in crannies and nooks.

'Who be these?' Coo asked FT, one midsummer morn,
00of a collection of seven small folks,
colours ranging from pale pink to bright bean to corn,
00eyes egg white-esque with squinty black yolks.

'Well, dear Coo,' FT answered, her own eyes aglow,
00'These be mossops, from St Mary's Isle –
they cost three-pounds-and-fifty, expensive I know;
00I was charmed by their fabulous style.'

'As am I,' chirped the colombine, twirling a tad,
00'And moreover, they seem super-sleek.'
'Super-sleek, super-stylish,' FT thought to add,
00as the mossops stood proud in their clique.

'This is Rose Quartz, I think.' FT pointed top right,
00and her finger brushed one mossop's head,
just a second of contact, her touch very light,
00but the mossop shrieked slightly and said:

'Yes it's true, we are St Mary's mossops, are we,
00and we wish to embark on a trip,
to the far Isles of Scilly with Coo and FT,
00so let's all board this glorious ship!'

A svelte sea ship appeared at the window of Coo's
00and the mossops jumped onto the deck,
'Shall we sail?' mused FT. 'I do fancy a cruise,'
00Coo replied, 'and the ship looks high tech!'

So they sailed through the trees to the fields to the coast,
00reaching Cornwall at just past midday.
'Are we there yet?' Coo asked; FT answered, 'Almost!'
00Then, 'We're here!' cheered the mossops. 'Hooray!'

🌴🌴🌴

Tomorrow: who knows?