More Round-Robin poems.
The poems you see here were brought into being by a process known as "writing one line and then passing the piece of paper to the person on your left who writes the next line and so on until it seems to be finished or to have ground to a halt". I know it's not a snappy title for the method but it does explain why they are, as they are!
Here they are:
A Little Space
Clocks without hands
demand of silence
a little space
in which to vanish.
In this grim market, hide your wares,
He who has, has more than cares,
Money buys no more than sorrow.
So give it to the poor - tomorrow;
Now, today must pay its fares
In broken shares, in broken shares.
Everyone needs a cup of tea.
Anyone will tell you that;
It's quite impossible to see
An argument to counter it.
Cherokees all drive Toyotas,
Freeway touring in their motors,
Zipping past bedraggled hikers:
'Hiawatha doesn't like us.'
Once, long ago, I was a thug.
With greasy hair and loathsome mien.
I hit a Teddy in the mug
And shouted something loud, obscene.
But now I live in Solihull
And have to wear a suit and tie;
Unexeptional and dull
On every bed I made I lie.
And wonder sometimes how, and why.
Keep on truckin', babe
A Yorkie in your hand.
Board the midnight stage
And wire the current band,
Truck on to the Everglades,
Keep another date,
Dodge between the ghostly shades:
Do not wait.
Truck along with Sting and John
Until the nightingale begins
Then, when all the crowds have gone.
This shed sniff dry of old sunshine
Locked rigid in a cask of dream
Full to the brim of old rich wine -
Good place to finish in!
Where stands the tall boy in the throng?
Who plots the course of Noah's Ark?
Why speak of Tightness to the wrong
When all are fumbling in the dark?
And where the short boy in the crowd?
Who sorts the best out from the worst?
Who does presume? Who shouts most loud?
I see a sober shadow, by what thin figure cast?
Boffins of the computer age
Met an ancient Grecian sage,
Bashed him on his lumpy head
Until he turned on them and said:
'The meadows of the mind are wide
But all the crops, I fear, have died.'
Angels don't accost me as they did,
For everything revealed, another's hid.
The strategies encompassed and unfurled
I find so hard to take in this old world;
Angels don't accost me as they did.
Music's lost its message, people yawn,
And fragile truths are quelled and not reborn.
For staring at the atom finds us trapped
In metal mazes which we best had scrapped;
Music's lost its message, people yawn.
The fire tower stands for trees around
As navies for the island race;
Most purposes we never found
Within the elements' embrace.
The dark alone reveals the stars.
As privates do the general's face.
Revile, and run off in fast cars
And come once more upon his grace.
The one rests on the other till
The moving one is also still.
More (better!) poetry here.
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