The Hermit Crab's Shell
The biggest shell of course, of course
How proud I will be
I'll show that horse!
I'll carry my fortress upon my back
and I'll be protected from being a seagulls snack.
The other crabs will be green with envy
It will even impress the sea anemone.
It will be to me like a peacocks tail
My magnificent mansion will make my legacy prevail.
Copyright Mark Leech 2016
Mark Leech is a very talented writer, who I have had the pleasure of meeting through a writer's group in my hometown. I've heard him write pieces with a dark edge, and then he wrote this during a session today. I like the humour that he brought to it, and am hopeful that he might want to have more poems on the site in the future.
How to Write a Poem
Learn to curse in three languages. When midday
yawns stack high and your eyelids flutter, fire up
the chain saw; there’s always something to dismember.
Make it new. Fear no bridges. Accelerate through
curves, and look twice
before leaping over fires,
much less into them. Read bones, read leaves, read
the dust on shelves and commit to memory a thousand
discarded lines. Next, torch them. Take more than you
need, buy books, scratch notes in the dirt and watch
them scatter down nameless alleys at the evening’s first
gusts. Gather words and courtesies. Guard them carefully.
Play with others, observe birds, insects and neighbors,
but covet your minutes alone and handle with bare hands
only those snakes you know. Mourn the kindling you create
and toast each new moon as if it might be the last one
to tug your personal tides. When driving, sing with the radio.
Always. Turn around instead of right. Deny ambition.
Remember the freckles on your first love’s left breast.
There are no one-way streets. Appreciate the fragrance
of fresh dog shit while scraping it from the boot’s sole.
Steal, don’t borrow. Murder your darlings and don’t get
caught. Know nothing, but know it well. Speak softly
and thank the grocery store clerk for wishing you
a nice day even if she didn’t mean it. Then mow the grass,
grill vegetables, eat, laugh, wash dishes, talk, bathe,
kiss loved ones, sleep, dream, wake. Do it all again.
Written by Robert Okaji
Robert writes a lot of very good poems, with a sense of humour running through them. He has a blog called O at the edges and the web address is http://robertokaji.com/
13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864
I adore John Clare's work, after picking one of his poems to read in a poetry group, his phrasing and the imagery that he used caught hold of me most powerfully, and refused to relinquish their grip.
There's something haunting, and beautiful which runs through all of his poetry. It wasn't until later that I discovered just how much he suffered with mental illnesses, entering several different asylums during the course of his life. It makes me admire him more, that he was able to produce poetry like this, despite such serious issues.
How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs,
Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me;
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,
But not an eye can find its way to see.
The sunbeams scarce molest me with a smile,
So thick the leafy armies gather round;
And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while,
Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground.
Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen,
Perks up its head the hiding grass between.-
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;
Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,
Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
'Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.
The shepherd has made a rude
mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love's name.
The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.
For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.
Birth: A light hearted limerick
If not for birth, where would we be?
Still stuck inside the mama’s tummy,
First we were sunshine in the sky,
Then a little twinkle in daddy’s eye,
Now a wondrous gift for all to see!
~ Diane D.
This poem is written by Diane D. I really like it, and am envious because I'm not good at rhyming poetry or comedic poetry either.
She has a blog at ladieswholunchreviews.wordpress.com