Last Orders

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Last Orders

I come on Thursday, sit on wooden chair
where poets congregate in strange half light,
sharing their thoughts with those who gather there -
the words are spoken, soaring, shining bright,
warming us as we leave to face the night.
The bear pit darkens, but forever hosts
the rhyming, raging, ranting, Tudor ghosts.

ballade royal formclosurepoetry nighttributetudor housewiganWOL wigan

◄ A Tree In The Elephant's Graveyard

Arroyo ►

Comments

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Tue 25th Nov 2014 16:36

Ian, bloomin' brilliant. I do admire your succinct scheme. Jeez! Well done. You stir me out of laziness.

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Dave Carr

Sun 23rd Nov 2014 10:15

Good sentiment. And iamic pentameter. I think those ghosts would be friendly - teddy bears really!

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Isobel

Fri 21st Nov 2014 14:12

It seems strange to think of the Tudor lying empty with no more words to be spoken on that stage and just memories of all that went before.

If we'd only known in October that that was going to be the last one, how painful would it have been?

Well done you for writing this - it echoes what we all feel.

I would try to write something myself, but I've got a panto to write :) Onwards and upwards eh?

Look forward to hearing this.

xx

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Andy N

Fri 21st Nov 2014 12:42

i never went there, Ian but i can really see this poem. top stuff..

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Ian Whiteley

Fri 21st Nov 2014 11:59

thanks for the comment Graham - it's a Ballade Royal stanza form - so the rules don't allow me to add that last line rhyme you suggest as it has to be seven lines ending on a CC rhyme - sorry :-)

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Graham Sherwood

Fri 21st Nov 2014 11:49

This is really strong but I can't help feeling on several readings it needs another line to rhyme with "night" as a penultimate line.

Well done Ian, a fine au-revoir

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