I have consistently explored Japanese poetry forms across the years. Boketto, Dodoitsu, Gogyyohka, Haibun. Haiku, Kimo and Tanka most among them. Today, allow me to present Kouta poems -a four line quatrain. It is renowned as a traditonal song of geisha. The word 'kouta' means little song. They come in two versions: Version 1 -7575 syllables Version 2 7775 syllables. The kouta has no other rules and generally follow themes of ordinary life. They are an ancient form that harkens back to the 14th century. I have chosen version 2 (7775 syllables) for my kouta poems. My poems deal with introspection and observation of the human condition. I'm in that sort of mood so I went with it... Conflicted Thoughts My heart rages with conflict I possess no direction Your words light the way forward And my world settles. Alan j Wright Deliver Light Overthrow this inner doubt With memory of good deeds Utter words consolingly And draw light your way. Alan j Wright Find Joy I dare to be bold w

  Without a doubt food and poetry have been enduring passions for me. Both pursuits involve making and creating. I therefore felt quite blessed to be gifted the book, 'Eat This Poem' by dear friends who know me well. It is such perfect matching of reader and interest. 'Eat This Poem- A Literary Feast of Recipes Inspired By Poetry'  by Nicole Gulotta contains 25 poems and seventy five recipes that deliver rich words to the kitchen. The book allows the reader to access poetry while offering strong connections to the food we prepare and share. The poem I have chosen to share is the final poem in the book, 'How to Eat A Poem' by Eve Merriam.  The poem is a metaphor for life. Don't wait, bite in and enjoy life's abundant pleasures. Couldn't agree more. How To Eat A Poem Don’t be polite. Bite in. Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon

  Dealing With Double Trouble! The very mention this week of tautology in a conversation sparked a memory of how annoying it is to hear such redundancy, used so frequently, and so unwittingly.  Here are a few that immediately come to mind: At the present time Very unique Mystery puzzle Wet monsoon Past history Pair of twins Free gift Sad misfortune Invited guests End result Boat marina Will and testament ATM machine I'm sure you get the idea… Tautology occurs everywhere. While living in  America some years back , the frequently used term, ‘TUNA FISH sandwich’ left me constantly bemused.  At JFK airport, I would sit waiting for my flight home to  Australia  and at regular intervals I would hear the announcement, ‘ This is the LAST and FINAL call for flight…’   and start twitching.  In Australia, I frequently hear people offering an opinion and qualifying it with, ‘If you ask ME PERSONALLY, well I think…’ and I’m sure we don’t need to hear FINAL and SHOWDOWN alongside each other ever

  As poets we spend so much time thinking about those ideas we wish to write about. As the saying goes, anything can be the focus of a poem. Well, pretty much everything... This week I completely flipped my thinking and began to consider those matters for which I hold absolutely no interest. This is quite clearly  a personal preference I'm exercising here and someone else's list may look decidedly different. That's as it should be. My poem is quite obviously a list poem and has a rhyming introduction. You could decribe it as an anti poem.  I Fail To See These Poems In Me I doubt that you will ever see These poems upon a page -by me Just forget it Don’t regret it They’re locked outside the gate Unneeded They shall remain forever unheeded  Topics I just fail to rate: My love for green trousers Admiration for influencers Garters Hot dog eating contests The thinness of Donald’s orange skin Wordle game result posters The history of lint Onions as gifts Recalling lost lemmings Ho

 Our poetry is informed by the here and now and also by memory and mood surrounding  events past. Those memories are often quite vividly recalled due to the impact they have had upon our lives.  My year in Grade 5 all those years ago was no doubt, memorable. Memorable for all the wrong reasons though. Still, it continues to provoke the poetry within. I am grateful for the therapy it delivers. I keep saying it, but its true- poetry is about the mud and the flowers. Be brave and consider all your rich and informative memories -the perfect and the problematic. Beware Of Wrong Answers In those long passed days, back in Grade 5  A lot of our time was spent With our hands on our heads All because our teacher, Ms Dungeon  Didn’t like fidgeting. She taught us to be afraid of wrong answers And to count in our heads -never our fingers She taught us how to write a letter But never let us send it -something I find strange even now. She introduced us to subject and predicate They sounded like the n

  I recently returned from a holiday in Bali. I had been looking forward to much reading, writing and relaxing as well as watching my four year old grand-daughter experience her first overseas travel adventure. The holiday had to be cut short due to some unscheduled health related issues that unfortunately claimed me. So, reading/writing plans did not materialize as I had envisaged, but I did get to see the joy in a child's eyes when exploring a new and exciting culture. Priceless... I at least got to rework a poem I had written on a previous Bali sojourn which was most satisfying. It has morphed into a haibun poem, so my brief time in Bali  produced a small, yet profound change. I'm home now and feeling better in every respect. A Room At Puri Damai Lying beneath a flimsy sheet, under the heavy heat of a Bali evening. I observe the ceiling fan, slightly out of kilter. It whirs and clicks as it spins, emitting a faint squeak of discomfort in its efforts to keep the warm air movi

 A chance conversation about eating healthy foods delivered me back to the bountiful garden my father created all those years ago, ensuring we ate well. Fruit and vegetables were plentiful and varied in our humble household. It was economically and gastronomically a sound investment. Garden to plate was seamless. Sometimes the fresh produce never made it to the plate. My favourite fruit trees in the mini orchard were the nectarines.   That's where this juicy little poem finds its essential spark in a memory regained. A conversation delivered a moment in time, now captured in words. Nectarines are not in season at present, but they are front of mind for me at least. Anything can be the focus of a poem-even nectarines. Poet's respond. A Morning Bounty Of Ripe Nectarines   I heard the footsteps on the back veranda Then I heard the fly screen door swing shut Wrapped in the turned up hem of his old jumper My father nursed a bounty of freshly picked nectarines Plucked from the fruit

Dug up this video while doing a bit of housekeeping with my poetry resources.   A little performance poetry with 'Slugger Mugger.'

I came upon Chrissie Gittins' poem, 'The Powder Monkey' while reading Michael Rosen's impressive anthology- 'Michael Rosen's A to Z -The Best Children's Poetry From Agard To Zephniah,' Puffin, 2009. I was so taken by it, I felt compelled to do some research regarding the poem's origin. It turns out the poem formed from a conversation the poet had with a friend. Chrissie Gittins, the poet visited HMS Victory in Portsmouth, U K and learnt about the young children, often orphans swept off the streets of England, who worked on eighteenth century sailing ships as powder monkeys. They kept the artillery on the gun decks stocked with gunpowder. She was shocked to discover that before 1794 children as young at six went to sea. She visited the Caird Library at the National Maritime Museum to research further. The  resultant docupoem  won the Belmont Poetry Prize for individual children’s poems. This was especially significant as the shortlist was drawn up by