Poetry, hated

As many of you know, I’m currently taking my BA (Hons) Arts & Humanities through the Open University. As part of the Creative Writing module, I had to write 40 lines of poetry. My previous tutor (I’ve now changed groups) absolutely hated what I wrote. It’s cliched, uninspired, unimaginative, and all tell, no show. Apparently. So here it is for everyone to hate:

Gin & Tonic

 

The sharp silver blade slices through the jaundiced flesh,

making no meal of cutting through the corpse.

Sour blood drips from the wound, the bitterness infects all that surrounds it,

as insipid flesh is peeled from the pitted skin.

Hung throughout life.

Drawn and quartered in death.

Laid on the icy slab.

Drowned.

 

Heavy hands throttle. Twisting, turning at the wretched neck,

braced for the inevitable spill of pretty thoughts.

Innards, cool and light, trickle down, splish-splashing as they hit the bottom,

of the clear well, meant as a means of containment.

Fused and joined.

Sweet scents meld together.

Laid on the icy slab.

Drunk.

 

 

Writing Poetry

 

Begin with a word, now choose another,

be the word’s mistress, don’t be its lover.

Bend it and twist it, do what you will,

out of your fingertips, let the words spill.

Find the words meaning and find it again,

snap it and crush it, and kill it and when,

you’ve found the right word that you want to use,

scratch it. Start again. Adore the abuse.

 

Find your beginning, a middle and end,

find some nouns and verbs and let them all blend.

Mix them all into a witch-worthy brew,

just leave them to be, and let the words stew.

Abandon your ink blots, start a new page,

unleash your dragons, your love, and your rage.

Once you are finished, you’re done and you’re through,

kill all of your darlings, then start anew.

 

Let the ink flow, until your pen’s run dry,

there’s nowhere to go, no tears left to cry.

Have you revealed yourself, hidden away,

seen the bleak night turn into a bleak day?

Family forgot you even existed.

Are all those scrounged words, humbled and twisted?

And have you chewed off less than was bitten?

The answer’s yes. It’s poetry written.

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