I having recently been involved in a somewhat on-going battle with the internet poetry establishment, (it’s great fun) where I had reason to raise the question as to whether authors who post the same poem on several poetry sites simultaneously in order to get recommendations for improvements to their posting.

Then use those recommendations per se as their own original thought.

Then having the audacity to post the collaborative effort as an example of their own original work in order to acquire a prize or acknowledgement of excellence, without making any reference to the considerable input by other poets who have virtually by way of recommendation rewritten the offending item.

The modern day poetic hierarchy having introduced many new rules regarding what is acceptable in today’s poetry, would appear for some reason to have left honesty out of the equation.

Here is one of my poems unsullied by any such advice plus three virtual ab lib repartees I posted on one  site  where I was belabouring the impositions imposed upon the traditional poet, before being subsequently banned by the incumbent and irate overlords.

It would appear it is, not only American Presidents, who are adverse to poetic criticism.

Needless, to say none of the posted work reviewed attracted any favourable comment and as such much of the usual detraction and vitriol came  from those accustomed to high praise in their chosen method of poetic expression...

The Ictus of the Bruiting Word.

Tonight like many other night:
I waste last rays of dwindling light.
Spindling floccule’s poetic byssus:
into threads of my tangential thought.

Whilst amber vitea still proclaims
its restless mind of victor’s immortality.
A funeral notice vies with poetic obsequies;
dark suited mourners, inwardly sigh
and silently eye the next contender
for the eerie hajji of appurtenance.

What tangled deeds a wordsmith decrees
addressing ecru’s artisan cloak of many cares.
To then, delight in ways its movement shades
in lisle of soft murmured synaesthesia.

When by such mind its all allusion
is little more than un voyant voit;
a canvas, which it’s self so breathes
sea silks made of consummate ease

. Yet wove so fine in warp and weft
What word could lay aside its deft:
embroidery of bright chromatic sheen
and still remain in weaver’s eye
an intricacy of nascence seen;

a randomness of xanthous dye
to librate leachate ictus inborn;
that golden mean a grace so real
in burnished truth’s own, bright suborn.

Sky’s fiery axis of Ixion’s wheel
sees hubris permeate with timed scorn.
‘Til sense intuitive, as words first flight alone
seeks safety on versification’s way forsworn
to rest awhile on bruiting’s make believe
and quell that quest of its qui vive.
As though approaching darkness could
by presence, be less than understood,
than sanctuary’s shadow adumbrating
its own self-centred mise en scène;
a sideling orison’s sad undertaking
of what it might have, somehow been

. When lenitive language deceives the pen
‘Til words, forgo their figurines of thought:
spreading cereous wings as in Icarus.
To where their aislings seem as caught:
On art’s abyss edge of primal Ekphrasis.

That staged scenario must of self now close
with all such arras, fated time bestows.
Free verse, the stage furniture of poetry;
a set; whereby, allusion acts upon
facades of words own mystery,
and language dies a trammelled death forlorn:
wrapped, in shrouds, of incomprehensible thought.

I stood upon a path, of which I knew not where it led
and yet a light shone bright that ventured me declare
“Consulere non quaero gloriam vocis "
As it edges ever closer to those who watch
the flickering lamp’s last spluttering glow;
‘Til like night’s beating moth, its effort does subside
As if it too had of its moment sought to hide
those charred wings that subdued thought now show.
“Da mihi fortitudinem vita excedere theatre”.

. No more, those penny stalls, where hoped dream enthrals;
and life’s own-posted page lies windswept in nature’s rage.
A poet’s death is but a moment’s breath in time.
And we who knew not favour’s scene or its false clime.
Read on. It’s but for you the clapper bell does chime

. Mor

. Prose, pretending to be poetry.

(Turning the pig’s ear into a purse of sorts)

 Pre block-out prose set to a string
 What joys you may attention bring
 If you could now, but try to sing:
Who knows, someone, might like its din.

You write your words, in comic phase
to hear poor self; proclaim mores.
 No wonder such receive duck praise.
When, pronouns litter every page.

Where definite articles are a must
they fill each line,as fit to burst.
To miss one out would seem a first:
On, that long step to better poetry.

When rescripts peer, no purpose sees:
to bring us joy with gentle glees.
They soak our brain in miseries.
When prose pretends, word is a poet.

Mor.

The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

I post my poems on seven sites,
there wait on wise replies.

I chose the ones I think are best
and then go on to win a prize.

Mor.

Digesting the Indigestible. 

 Reading modern  prose style poetry
Is like eating yesterday's stale porridge
At six o’clock on a frost white morning

When one could just as easily
Be having a nice cup of tea
Whilst reading BBC’s Home News

Written in understandable English

Mor.