WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

Totnes High Street

Deep into Autumn, where we found it,
soft-staring up from underneath;
entrap the change, swiftgiven round it.

The shift in short-shrift sang astounded
at hives away from spinneyed heath
deep into Autumn, where we found it.

Sum totals thus far have amounted
to writhe and half-thrive gritted teeth;
vow keep the change, swiftgiven round it.

Our paltry pennies, copper, counted,
purloined in pockets like a sheath
deep into Autumn, where we found it.

Perceive the seemly, be surmounted,
don aching ardour like a wreath;
swear keep the change, swiftgiven round it.

Rank difficulties were compounded
back in the green, by tree and leaf.
Deep into Autumn, where we found it,
we kept the change, swiftgiven round it.

8 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

Your sons and daughters don’t belong to you -
they are life’s longing for itself, preplanned;
though in this incarnation, you they choose,

they’re not possessions to be kept and used.
Give love, but let your thoughts awash in sand;
your sons and daughters don’t belong to you.

Those children have thoughts of their own, enthuse.
May house their bodies, yet not souls command.
Though in this incarnation, you they choose,

their souls dwell in tomorrow’s house; refused
a visit – yes, in truth. Please understand:
your sons and daughters don’t belong to you.

May strive to be like them, though they’ll confuse;
seek not to make them like you, heavy hand,
though in this incarnation, you they choose.

You are the bows; like living arrows true,
your children are sent forth to life and land.
Your sons and daughters don’t belong to you.

For life it tarries not with wrack and rue
of yesterday, on moving sea and strand;
though in this incarnation, you they choose,
your sons and daughters don’t belong to you.

✩

This is a modified villanelle rewrite in iambic pentameter of Lebanese-American artist, poet and writer Khalil Gibran’s prose-poetry piece On Children, from his famous collection The Prophet (1923). Most of the first stanza I owe to poet friend Michael James Murphy. Thank you.

9 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

They shoot the breeze with big and small (but mainly small);
“It never came to any good”, self-satisfied.
As ever, then it was forgotten, ditched by all.

It might have been worth all that spit, they can’t recall,
though some wore truth and some wore coloured shades of lie;
they shoot the breeze with big and small (but mainly small).

Agreeable or inclement, to face a squall
as endings come, is irrefutable. Deny,
as ever; then it is forgotten, ditched by all.

A cynics ceremony, protocol of pall;
these senseless seething spirals gathered in goodbyes.
They shoot the breeze with big and small (but mainly small).

What to wear tonight? Might have to spree the mall.
That clothing, cotton worked by swarthy hands, untie
when time is done, and flesh forgotten, ditched by all.

Still breathing and still chattering, can’t face the fall;
emancipated higher selves will fin’lly fly.
They shot the breeze with big and small (but mainly small) -
forever, now they are forgotten, ditched by all.

☆

Villanelle rewrite of (mainly the small), which is in free verse and prose-poetry forms.

4 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

Fat Neverland (I’m Loathin’ It) – Villanelle original

Factory farm ‘em on rainforest land,
jab ‘em with jittery antibiotics, in
serving a hoodwinked world’s worst burger-stand.

Nutrient nadir, damn should have you banned,
even when just drunken teens in your night-kitchen
sucking down scared meat from rainforest land.

Wretched obese bloat and fall at your hand;
farmers on statutory antidepressants been
plying, supplying world’s worst burger-stand.

Consciences slip through ringed fingers like sand.
Wallets are plump; I’m still wondering why? (you grin)
greenlighting greenfelling greenforest land.

Golden the arches, but ain’t worth a grand;
Ronald’s grave future sees past catching up with him -
homeless – McCuster’s last fastburger-stand.

Clown let the kids party Fat Neverland,
Tinkerbell grounded by chow she’s demolishing.
Cattle confused grazing rainforest land,
passed off as food at world’s worst burger-stand.

Fat Neverland (I’m Loathin’ It) – free verse rewrite

Factory-farmed on rainforest land;
force-fed with antibiotics to serve a
hoodwinked world’s worst burger-stand.

A nutrient nadir that should have
them banned, even when just drunken
teens in their night-kitchen, sucking
down scared meat with cardboard and Coke.

Wretched obese bloat oily soak, in
triple chins of self-loathing they wallow;
farmers swallow disgust and
statutory antidepressants
supplying mass substandard beef.

Consciences slip through
ringed fingers like sand.

Wallets are plump
greenlighting
greenfelling
greenforest land.

Golden the arches, but ain’t worth a thing;
Ronald’s grave future sees
past catching up with him -
homeless – McCuster’s last fastburger-stand.

Clown let the kids carouse Fat Neverland,
now Tinkerbell’s grounded
by chow she’s demolishing.

Cattle confused, passed off as food
at world’s worst burger-stand.

☆

Villanelle in dactylic tetrameter (dactyl is the trisyllabic foot that goes stress-unstress-unstress), ‘a’-rhymes (land/stand, etc.) are minus the two last unstressed syllables, ie. masculine rhyme in a normally feminine-rhyming meter. Example of meter from lines one and two:

FAC to ry | FARM ‘em on | RAIN for est | LAND = dactylic tetrameter minus its last two unstressed syllables (masculine end-rhyme)

JAB ‘em with | JI tte ry | AN ti bi | OT ics, in        = dactylic tetrameter proper (feminine end-rhyme)

‘Statutory’ counting as three syllables not four (Americans say it as four, Brits three, ie. ‘statut’ry’). The technical side of poetry – ain’t it fun…? (Maybe my next should be a Limerick…).

Underneath you see I’ve rewritten it in free verse, for those who dislike form poetry. I felt the content was important enough.

Incidentally, I also rewrote this as a Pushkin Sonnet. Which version of the three do you prefer, I wonder?

8 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

Conservative Leader and UK Prime Minister David Cameron

Their toxic manifestos blind our sight,
Authoritarians lay traps and wait.
Rage, rage against the lying of the Right.

By Coalition, Liberals chanced the night -
the Tories forced into a strange stalemate -
but manifestos must be kept in sight.

The plotting Palin proves Obama’s blight,
while India and China crash the gate.
Rage, rage against the lying of the Right.

Control whole Middle-East, least if they might,
securing all the oil, at any rate.
Their faking manifestos blind our sight.

Don’t think you’re still ahead just ’cause you’re White,
and turn that huntin’ gun on me, irate.
Rage, rage against the lying of the Right.

Misled; within your eyes, Hell’s Flames alight,
unlock those missile-sights, all set in hate.
No toxic manifestos blind our sight;
rage, rage against the lying of the Right.

http://www.politicalcompass.org/ukparties2010
http://www.politicalcompass.org/uselection2008

Republican Sarah Palin, left, taken down a peg by satirist Tina Fey, right

The wonderful line I have used as my second refrain, which sparked off this villanelle in the first place - ‘Rage, rage against the lying of the Right’ – (playing on Dylan Thomas’s famous line ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’), is sourced from the Liberal/Left political website www.myleftwing.com and used with their kind permission. Indeed they have t-shirts with the it gloriously emblazoned across the front.

2 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

The fire was lit, the pyre a plume,
a wedding day became a wake;
deep red the wine, and black the moon.

A darking day for bride and groom,
of burning flesh it stank, the cake.
The fire was lit, the pyre a plume.

Sick shades of grey creep-skulking loom
as ash descends upon the lake.
Deep red the wine, and black the moon.

Throats parched, they prayed for long monsoon;
just sullied lake, and wine, to slake.
The fire was lit, the pyre a plume.

See ashen-face and ash impugn,
mere ashes of his wife to take.
Deep red the wine, and black the moon.

The daybreak grey they can’t presume
as steps into the distance make.
The fire was lit, the pyre a plume,
deep red the wine, and black the moon.

1 person likes this post.

Like

Unlike

The aftertaste of sex is bittersweet,
left in malaise and mess, he feels descent.
Is there no purer way for us to meet?

It’s Nature and Her schemes of great deceit,
coercing man and woman, She’s hell-bent.
The aftertaste of sex is bittersweet.

Compelled, raw meat, fuck-hormones are replete.
It’s time to come, to go, to pay the rent;
is there no purer way for us to meet?

The great mismatch ensnaring fools on heat,
just dogs with Durex, pseudo heaven-scent;
the aftertaste of sex is bittersweet.

Those moments afterwards are true dead-meat.
Emasculated, raison d’être spent:
is there no purer way for us to meet?

This Great Mismatch has men out on the street
recoiling, too, in awful discontent.
The aftertaste of sex is bittersweet.
Is there no purer way for us to meet?

☆

Note on the Latin title, Coitus non Circum: this phrase means, a) ‘Sex doesn’t work in a circle’; b) ‘No fucking around’ (ie. ‘No joke’, but also ‘No promiscuity’). Thus it has three meanings. I give credit to my poet friend Christina Maki for the Latin. I have now rewritten this as free verse, for those interested.

After two male poets gave their own interpretation, female poet Shân Ellis responded to this piece, giving a woman’s point-of-view (also in villanelle format). Hers can be seen here.

3 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

Behold: I sight the rain of dark, in gaze -
Poseidon’s tide, it stead’ly teased the shores,
and then stormed in, which seize through ruthless raze.

A siren of the sea, whose love decays,
the tempest lashed the windows and the doors,
behold, eye sight – the rain of darken gaze,

her fickle fiddle summons wind to bays.
A mythic mistress; wrathful yet adores,
and then stormed in Witch Seas, through ruthless raise,

unable to resist her violent phase,
surrendering to Nature’s strongest laws.
Behold, aye, cite the rain of dark in gaze,

I long for sunlit days devoid of haze.
The light shines bright as Helios implores,
and then stormed in, which, sees through ruthless rays,

order restored, bestowing bless’ed ways.
The storm no longer shook our timber floors.
Behold: I cite the reign of dark, in gaze,
and then stormed in, ‘Which sees through ruthless rays?’

☆

(Illustration: Gustave Dore)

1 person likes this post.

Like

Unlike

The One with the Curls

What became of my summertime girls?
On that field grazes a cow.
What became of the one with the curls?

Malaise like a flag unfurls;
on that field lazes a plough.
What became of my summertime girls?

Through Winter, desolation uncurls.
Those people and places are gone, now -
what became of the one with the curls?

What became of her coy string of pearls?
I need dreams to help me along, now;
what became of my summertime girls?

I’m far from these fanciful whirls.
The maze up ahead asks me: how?
What became of the one with the curls?

The Ladies have all met their Earls -
ach! Wo ist meine Frau?
What became of my summertime girls?
What became of the one with the curls?

The First Day of Spring

Embittered Winter cast Himself away
upon a gale, and swept elsewhere on it.
The Sun shone brightly, Summer’s bold entrée.

I hungered madding Springtime to betray
Her colder cousin, knowing time befit;
embittered Winter cast Himself away.

See dancing trees in wonderful ballet;
the singing breezes happy to admit
the Sun shone brightly, Summer’s bold entrée.

Birds felt the change before the break of day
and joined the breeze in strains, pale-morning lit.
Embittered Winter cast Himself away.

And you and I, socks off, we tread the way
across the grasses, under trees we sit.
The Sun shone brightly, Summer’s bold entrée.

Old man, invigorated, bright, though grey,
he mumbled praises like some Jesuit.
Embittered Winter cast Himself away;
the Sun shone brightly, Summer’s bold entrée.

☆

The villanelle, along with the Italian sonnet, is my favourite of the old forms. I was drawn to the villanelle at University after discovering Dylan Thomas’s immaculately-wrought, deeply moving masterpiece Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night, which became my favourite poem of all time (and is still right up there). The two above are old ones I have dragged out and edited. New ones shall be written! Amen.

3 people like this post.

Like

Unlike