A working-class poet
I dedicate this poem to the man behind the mask
A working-class poet
I don’t consider myself a good poet
Because I make a word rhyme
How hard can it be
To rhyme one word in a line
The task is really no task at all
I mean how can you fail
How can you fall?
I am a working-class poet
If a poet at all
Using grandiose words
that plebeians can’t understand
what is the point
I’m just a working-class man
No high education
No university diplomas
Remembering I am just
a simple doomer gloomer
No cost a lot holidays
On Costa del Sol
No f’n sun on this island
no none at all
Rain soaking my cap
My feet soaking wet
I’m just a working-class poet
I know it
And yet
Perhaps there’s a place
Were rubbish poets can post
I just haven't found it yet.
I’d make a good host
No sonnets to configure
No lines to count
Not even a high horse
For me to dismount
No Metre, enjambment, caesura to find
these are just things that to
a working-class poet is blind
ternary feet, the dactyl molossus
not forgetting the Tribrach
the amphibrach, amphimacer
and quaternary feet
more f’n words that sound oh! so neat
My Anglo Saxon attitude
Dying to kick in
Don’t get started… where to begin?
Syllabic verse the stanza terza rima
Quatrain, the rubai, rhyme royal
Not to mention the ottava rima
Spenserian stanza critics to spoil.
I’m just a working-class poet
I know nothing at all
about how to write poetry
Just gibberish that’s all.
Adopting and adapting
What little I know
The Ballard, heroic verse
Here he goes Oh! Noooo!
F’n working-class poet
Will he never shut up?
The ode: Sapphic (no I’m not pissed)
My spelling might be off, the odd letter I missed
Pindaric, Horatian, not to mention the lyric ode
I’m just a working-class poet
With nothing to write
That’s not a problem where’s my commode?
When I need some bog roll cos. the shops have sold out
I'll just rip this shit up
Hurrah! You all shout.
Villanelle, sestina I’m falling asleep
I’m just a working-class poet
This shit is too deep
Pantoum is knocking
On my bed-chamber door
For ‘f-sake Po
Have you got any more?
Nope, I’m just a working-class poet
With nothing to say
Who reads any of this stuff at the end of the day?
Rondel, roundel, rondelet, roundelay
As my head hits the pillow
I've got nothing more to say
Except for triolet Kyrielle
And have a good day
Oh! just one thing
If I’m still keeping you up
Clerihew, Woo Hey!
I’m just a working-class poet
With f’all to say
I just wanted to have
A per-verse bit of fun
Playing with myself
What?
Yes! I know I will mum.
No haiku, senryu
No not f’you
For goodness sake Mum
Why on earth don’t you
Tanka, that’s thank you in some foreign speak
No, it’s not really but I need my sleep
Ghazal… Nope not you either, my winged angel gazelle
Luc, bat, (as in out of hell) tanaga
I’m just a working-class poet
Look can’t you tell
Nearing the end now
Almost the end
I can’t keep up this pretence
I’m going round the bend
I’m not a poet and never will be
I am just Po and Po is just me.
So, to conclude
and end this small piece
if you're still reading
May sweet sleep surround us
Po has at long last surcease.
Po the working-class Po et
Isobel O'Donnell
Thu 9th Jul 2020 10:11
I adored this piece. I can't wait to read more of your work x