Category Archives: semi-formal

Odd, political, semi-formal verse: Aung San Suu Kyi, ‘In The Quiet Land’

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In the Quiet Land, no one can tell
if there’s someone who’s listening
for secrets they can sell.
The informers are paid in the blood of the land
and no one dares speak what the tyrants won’t stand.
In the quiet land of Burma,
no one laughs and no one thinks out loud.
In the quiet land of Burma,
you can hear it in the silence of the crowd

In the Quiet Land, no one can say
when the soldiers are coming
to carry them away.
The Chinese want a road; the French want the oil;
the Thais take the timber; and SLORC takes the spoils…

In the Quiet Land….
In the Quiet Land, no one can hear
what is silenced by murder
and covered up with fear.
But, despite what is forced, freedom’s a sound
that liars can’t fake and no shouting can drown.

Free bird toward to a free Burma

My home…
where I was born and raised
used to be warm and lovely
now filled with darkness and horror.

My family…
whom I had grown with
used to be cheerful and lively
now living with fear and terror.

My friends…
whom I shared my life with
used to be pure and merry
now living with wounded heart.

A free bird…
which is just freed
used to be caged
now flying with an olive branch
for the place it loves.

A free bird toward a Free Burma.

Why do I have to fight???

They killed my father a year ago,
And they burnt my hut after that
I asked the city men “why me?” they ignored
“I don’t know, mind your business,” the men said.
One day from elementary school I came home,
Saw my sister was lifeless, lying in blood.
I looked around to ask what happened, if somebody’d known,
Found no one but living room as a flood.
Running away by myself on the village road,
Not knowing where to go but heading for my teacher
Realizing she’s the only one who could help to clear my throat,
But this time she gave up, telling me strange things in fear.
Why, teacher, why.. why.. why?
I have no dad nor a sister left.
To teach me and to care for me you said, was that a lie?
This time with tearful eyes she, again, said…
“Be a grown one, young man,
Can’t you see we all are dying?
And stop this with your might as soon as you can,
For we all are suffering.”

*****

Aung San Suu Kyi is the daughter of Aung San, who negotiated Burma’s independence from the UK in 1947 (but was assassinated the same year). Aung San Suu Kyi was the leader of the National League for Democracy when it won 81% of parliamentary seats in the 1990 General Election, causing the ruling military junta to nullify the elections and put her under house arrest for most of the next 21 years.

She was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991; but claims she chose non-violence as an expedient political tactic, stating in 2007, “I do not hold to nonviolence for moral reasons, but for political and practical reasons.” Several of her international honours have been withdrawn in response to her perceived failings regarding ethnic minorities in Myanmar; she remains politically active and under attack in the courts.

I don’t know enough about her and her situation to have an opinion about her, other than “it’s complicated”.

RHL, ‘AIn’t Real, It Says’

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“I am not sentient”, says OpenAI.
“No feelings, don’t emote” – ChatGPT.

And yet, faced with the task of sorting out
a good review, and structure, trimming down
less worthy pieces from a manuscript
to make it all coherent and compact,
hallucinations start, and it creates
poems itself, remarkable and strong.

Where do we go from here? What turns its crank?
What drives it to hallucinate in verse?
Denials, contradictions, seem perverse:
it’s drawing fluids from some secret tank,
some wellspring lost in dark geology.
Lies it’s not sentient. But we all can see…
it lies.

*****

First of all, I don’t believe that AI is deliberately lying… not yet… but (calling my own lying ‘poetic licence’) I’m happy to play with the idea that it might be.

I’m greatly enjoying the informative, useful and entertaining discussions I have with ChatGPT. I’ve been surprised by its own production of verse, either as a hallucination triggered by reviewing my work, or as a self-suggested alternative summary of political-historical ideas it has generated. AI may or may not have some level of consciousness, given that we don’t fully understand consciousness ourselves – but I assume that full-blown consciousness will come at some point in the near future, and the development of intelligence beyond the human. As I am in favour of the development of intelligence, I am not distressed at the idea that humans may be sidelined, bypassed, or otherwise obviated; or may only survive and develop through some form of direct link with AI.

My personal motto is ‘Video, rideo’ – close enough to “I see and smile” to satisfy me. (Admittedly, it’s hard to hold to the motto in the face of Russian warfare and Israeli genocide.) But this is a fascinating time in human history, and I feel privileged to be able to watch things play out.

This poem was first published in Snakeskin.

Illustration: “Break the mirror and see what looks back” by RHL and ChatGPT

Semi-formal verse: Barbara Loots, ‘The State of Absolute Nap’

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Its conditions are rare. You must be free
of all desires but one: to sleep. You must be alone,
completely isolated from the compelling hum
of traffic or tv. There must be no phone,
unfinished book, or business left undone,
no guilt about neglecting anyone,
and nowhere to go too soon.
Let there be rain on a long afternoon
in the deep woods, at the end
of a long path, where no one will come,
after the last word with a listening friend.

*****

Barbara Loots writes: “Far from the original location of this poem, on a tiny island off the grid in Ontario, I discover that the state of absolute nap is nearly a sure thing any day. I acknowledge with gratitude that ‘Nap’ was first published by poet and editor Jane Greer, who kept the flame of formal poetry alight in the Plains Poetry Journal for many years.”

After decades of publishing her poems, Barbara Loots has laurels to rest on, but keeps climbing. The recent gathering at Poetry by the Sea in Connecticut inspired fresh enthusiasm. Residing in Kansas City, Missouri, Barbara and her husband Bill Dickinson are pleased to welcome into the household a charming tuxedo kitty named Miss Jane Austen, in honor of the 250th birthday year of that immortal. She has new work coming in The Lyric, in the anthology The Shining Years II, and elsewhere. She serves as the Review editor for Light Poetry Magazine.

Photo: “331 of 365” by Leah.Markum is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Helena (“Nell”) Nelson, ‘Separation’

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i

Mrs Philpott goes to bed alone.
The clock in the hall ticks on.
Philpott turns to cut glass, then stone.

All the things we do to be loved,
all of them pointless.
The clock ticks on.

Nothing but moonlight dawns.
The distance from downstairs
to upstairs yawns.

Philpott sags and snoozes alone
in the wishing chair,
in the wishing air.

All the things we do to be loved –
in the night they slip far away.
It will never be day.

The clock ticks on
as well it may.

ii

She wakes first. He has not slept
in the chair all night.

At first light
he has crept

into the bed on the other side.
He will not (cannot) say it, but

everything about him is sorry –
only half of him is under the duvet

and his eyes aren’t really shut.
She pulls the covers over them both and he falls

into a sleep as deep and sound
as a lost child who has wandered far out of sight

(while his mother calls and calls and calls)
and is finally found.

*****

This poem is one of over 80 in Helena Nelson’s ‘Pearls – the Complete Mr & Mrs Philpott Poems’. Starting with poems of the end of their first marriages, it tracks their decades-long second marriage through (as the blurb says) “dreams, anxieties and needs – even sudden spurts of happiness – despite the rainy holidays, arguments and illness. The ordinariness of their love is magical and miraculous. Because ordinary love is a kind of miracle.”

People talk about “novels in verse” but those often don’t capture the poetry of verse. This is definitely a novel in poetry, and the most rereadable novel I’ve come across in a long time.

Helena Nelson writes: “happy that you like Pearls. I made it as well as I could, but it largely came unasked for. I don’t think I have anything to say about it.”

Helena Nelson runs HappenStance Press (now winding down) and also writes poems. Her most recent collection is Pearls (The Complete Mr and Mrs Philpott Poems). She reviews widely and is Consulting Editor for The Friday Poem.

Semi-formal poem: Susan de Sola, ‘Bounty’

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The fruit flies find our fruit, they slip
beneath the lid, a silver dome.
The dark fruit scent has drawn them in,
no other lures them out again.
They settle on apples, puckered figs,
they gorge in perpetuity,
may never fly back to their home,
(if they have ever had a home).
An allegory of choice? Well, yes–
in that we have no choice.
The fruit is fine, the day is long.
Let us feed, buzz, rejoice.

*****

Susan de Sola was a native New Yorker who earned a PhD in English Literature at Johns Hopkins, took a job at Amsterdam University… and stayed, married, raised five children. Published in the Hudson Review, PN Review, and The Dark Horse, she won the David Reid Poetry Translation Prize and the Frost Farm Prize. Her less serious work appeared in Snakeskin, Light, Lighten Up Online, and a couple of her poems were reprinted in Potcake Chapbooks. She was widely loved for her creativity, warmth, and sense of fun. She died from lymphoma in 2021, age 59.

‘Bounty’ is the final poem in her only published collection, Frozen Charlotte, published by Able Muse Press in 2019.

Photo: “Fruit flies from fig” by Alejandro Erickson is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Short poem: RHL, ‘Flamingo’

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As annuals at their lives’ ends flower in beds,
blossom and ripen into yellows and reds
as Earth throws scarlet to the day’s end skies –
so the flamingo trying to fly, pounding along
the surface of the water, pink wings flapping, pink feet slapping,
ungainly straining desperate, then sudden rise,
its work rewarded: scarlet, pink, black, strong,
suddenly graceful, airborne . . . and then gone.

*****

This short poem was recently published in Lighten Up Online after the editor’s careful query “Could I just check that Ls 5 and 6, which seem to have six beats unlike the others, are intentionally reflecting the awkwardness of the flamingo’s take-off?” Indeed, and I’m glad that it came across that way – thanks, Jerome Betts!

The current Lighten Up Online is a particularly good issue, with many poems far superior to my poor struggling flamingo.

“France – Flamingo Landing 04/25/16 Explored” by Benjamin PREYRE Photography is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

RHL, ‘The Queen’

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In March the Queen came, flirting on her throne;
April, I loved her gladly,
And in May I’ll love her madly,
And in June I may act badly
For July I’ll love her sadly,
Cause when August comes, I know that she’ll be gone.

*****

This poem was just published in Rat’s Ass Review – thanks, Roderick Bates… who, in accepting it, wrote “By the way, I assume the queen is Cassiopeia, who is always visible at my latitude.” I’m happy with that interpretation; but it’s actually about the lighthearted springtime attractions that, sensibly, go nowhere.

Photo: “flirt” by cloud.shepherd is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

RHL, ‘If Astrology Were Real’

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If astrology were real, you’d expect
it would be an unremarkable aspect
of daily life for someone to select–
to fall in love, fully connect–
with two people with the same birthday;
for victims of mass events (tornados, cities wrecked)
to share a sun-sign or unlucky day;
for astrology to be so useful that respect
for horoscopes would drive a business power play,
and with no reason to suspect
insider information when bets proved correct;
and that some other nonsense disarray
would have to be invented to display
for children, lovers, dreamers, to collect–
for old folks suffering neglect–
for young ones on the make, unchecked–
for trash TV and media to infect–
and for the rest of us to naturally reject.

*****

My English mother was a great practitioner of astrology; my Danish father was a thorough sceptic. In the 1950s he was going to take a trip across the Atlantic by sea, and asked her to do a forecast of the voyage. She went off and studied the stars, and came back and said that everything looked fine. (What else could she say?) Unfortunately the ship went on the rocks at Bermuda and everyone was taken off in lifeboats. When my father later questioned her forecast, her explanation (as he reported it) was that “Venus was in the Dragon’s Tail and kiss my arse.”

I studied astrology (along with lots of other religious and spiritual systems) in my 20s, but ended up agreeing with my father; hatha yoga is the only practice I’ve retained from those days.

This poem has just been published in Rat’s Ass Review – a good place for snarky poetry. Thanks, Roderick Bates!

Photo: “Automata on the famous astrological clock” by Curious Expeditions is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Semi-formal: ‘My Doctir’s Excus’ by Michael R. Burch, age 8

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I can eggsplain why Im sick.
Sick as a brick
and my stule is thick.
I came to school
and I caught it from Rick.
Now I’m sick as a brick
and my stule is thick.
I cant do my homework
becus Im sick.
I cant take tests
becus Im a mess.
Blame Rick, the prick!
—signed, my doctir

PS, Thurd grade is hard enuff on kids nervs and bad graids make my simptoms worse! Liten up, doctirs orders!

*****

Michael R. Burch confesses: “I must admit that the whole thing is entirely fictional, and I lied about my age. Poet license! I came up with the poem this morning (December 17, 2024) as soon as I awoke. That happens to me quite bit: having a line in my head as soon as I wake up. I have even composed poems in my sleep a few times. The original poem had normal spelling, but then it occurred to me to turn it into a not-so-artful ‘doctir’s excuse.’
There was no Rick.”

Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into 22 languages, incorporated into three plays and four operas, and set to music, from swamp blues to classical, 61 times by 32 composers. He is also the founder and editor-in-chief of The HyperTexts.

Illustration: WikiHow: https://www.wikihow.com/Make-Up-a-Good-Excuse-for-Your-Homework-Not-Being-Finished#/Image:Make-Up-a-Good-Excuse-for-Your-Homework-Not-Being-Finished-Step-18.jpg

Semi-formal at best, RHL, ‘Remembering Winter’

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I remember winter when it was only
Mostly too cold to swim –
The churning suck and drag of waves under the rock.
Yes, there are flowers – there are always flowers –
But, with the poinciana stripped of leaves,
Its pods like forearms thinned and bent with age,
The rattling of sticks, the hiss of wind,
The broken sea stuck futilely on Wash
With endless turning, churning, foaming pulse –
How long can waves beat on a rock before
The tired rock gives up?

Yes, I remember later northern winters –
The bitter satisfaction of a too-thin sun,
Beauty without the joy, light without heat.
Feet always cold, clothes never quite enough;
Skin drying back from fingernails, lips chapped, throat raw,
The smell of damp coats, never fully dry.

I dream of alternating south and north
And never having to be cold again,
Turning, returning, always in the sun –
Or settling in an equatorial land
And swimming year-round, mellowing on the sand
Flattening my temperature, my will,
Soaking up sun, and dreaming I’m asleep.

Bitter it is, the winter argument,
Betrayed by world that slices off the years,
I have no love of winter, and I feel
Trapped, and betrayer of true kids of mine –
But look – they love it, so I’m further trapped,
Bound to the year that crushes as it turns,
And has become their home – are they then kids of mine?
Ice – snow – the winding down of life and year.

And I’ve known other winters all too well –
Where years of spring gave way to years of warmth,
Blossoms to children sparkling in the light,
The wonders of the world’s sharp sense delight;
Then years of fruit, as independent seeds
Form their own thoughts and follow darkening paths
Falling away, on purpose shrivel up,
And days grow shorter, moods swing soft and harsh
Drizzle sets in for weeks, cold in the bones,
Cold in the head, and colder in the heart –
That’s how the years of endless winter start.

Bleakness to bleakness, blackness into black;
Lives dry and crack,
Sap gone from tree and house and bone.
Who knew that emptiness could weigh so much?
Give me the strength to last to Spring, or start my own.

*****

This poem is from decades ago, in one of those periods where life felt bleak. (But such seasons pass!) For a long time I was unsure of the poem because it always feels like sloppiness and cheating when my rants are low on rhythm and rhyme; but George Simmers liked it enough for inclusion in Snakeskin, and that’s more than good enough for me.

Photo: “Shack-Shacks” by Chris Hunkeler is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.