I'm top shot at my game. I pen
the sound bites for a man
you've heard of right enough -
one too verbose for words.
From long and convoluted sentences
I strike the fiery chips
that sparkle for eternities
on everybody's lips.
I can reduce a dissertation
to a syllable or two,
wrap up a constipated message
in a word that hits home true.
My master's speeches you'll forget
before you've finished clapping
but mine go on -
some say too long -
and never lose their grip.
Give me a closely argued script
and some syllables to fill,
I'll give you back a winning phrase
to move in for the kill.
When my haiku hit the campaign trails
I'm the Kikaku* of Tooting,
I'm the Manifesto Masefield of my day,
The Ezra Pound of policy,
a Spenserian of speeches
and a Browning who will storm a budget day.
I write villanelles on voting
and tetrameters to trumpet
every turning of the tortuous
political, backstabbing working day.
*A protege of Basho.
Like my poem of a couple of days ago, I've based this on a person known to me, though on this occasion, only briefly. I met him at a conference and during a lunch time chat he confided that he had worked for a time as a writer of sound bites. He seemed to consider that his "bites" were politically more important than "the big man's" speeches. Maybe he was right. I have for long toyed with the idea of writing about him, but there was a problem: Carol Ann Duffy has a poem I much admire about the man who writes the headlines for a newspaper. The similarity is unmissable, I thought I would not be able to avoid stealing from her. Nor - I think - have I. For those who might be interested, "Poet for our Times" can be read here. I don't mind you reading it now, but I sure wasn't going to follow it!
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...