Form and Content
Saturday, 27 November 2021 23:26

Form and Content

Published in Poetry

Form and Content

by Martin Rowson

Today is National Poetry Day, so I must now inform
The World that she whom I adore, she who keeps me warm,
Hates my verse, abhors my rhymes, thinks my scansion gorm-
My love, alas, approves the content but deplores the form.

What I see as a refuge from the wild, encircling storm,
She sees as simply stinkier than a Belgian borstal dorm
And drippier than the rubber trees in a short story by Maugham.
Alas, my love approves the content but deplores the form.

It gets yet worse: not only does my verse underperform
Because it's written, so she claims, in ways outside the norm;
I think she thinks it should be eaten by a locust swarm.
My love, alas, approves the content but deplores the form.

Our daughter's worse, for she believes ALL poetry is grim;
Thinks trying to express your thoughts and feelings thus is lame,
Which leads me, with great sorrow, to conclude we must assume
She really hates the content AND truly deplores the form.

Me? I think that my poor verses have a certain chorm,
And by and large I kid myself that they do little horm.
Moreover they've a neutral impact on my huge incorm,
So I approve their content and I approve their form!

National Poetry Day: Fuck Off Darlings
Saturday, 27 November 2021 23:26

National Poetry Day: Fuck Off Darlings

Published in Poetry

fuck off darlings

by Martin Hayes

fuck off with your award-winning
fuck off with your writer groups
fuck off with your plastic covers of books that contain no heart
no guts
fuck off with your equations and rules
your blank little spaces that are supposed to represent a women's breath
a man's sweat
fuck off with your readings and open mic events
your slaps on the back
your reach-arounds
fuck off with your ‘suffering’ radar
it is so busy
fuck off with your dead pets your dead mothers who stitched
seahorses into your duvets and dressing gowns
and fuck off to your pieces that are so PC on-point
PC is stuck in your throats like a bunch of frogs
and whenever any of you speak
all we get is the same croak
the same storm of words
we need
a different raging
other than your obscure metaphors
your complicated words
and your irrelevant plots

we need you now
more than ever
but all you can do is paint pictures of seas crashing onto beaches that no one will ever sit on
littered with stars that no one can see
silk gloves
that will never fit the hands
of the men and women you punt
your dribble out at