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

I have been exploring the theme of small, tiny things. Things microscopic and seemingly insignificant. It turns out to be a HUGE matter to ponder. Living close to the beach, I quickly realized I had an abundant source of tiny material to inform my writing. The Travel Adventures of Sandy Grains   Within the whispers of the shore Where waves unload at beach’s door Lies a tale of grains of sand Gifted by the oceans grand.   In pockets, cracks and corners deep Grains finds a home, a place to sleep A tiny stash of sandy gold A story waiting to be told.   From every shore, sand is shifted To parts unknown, grains are lifted On gusts of wind, they hitch a ride Dispersing beach-sand far and wide.   A reminder of the changing sea Grains of sand spread randomly In nooks and crannies they now sit These tiny specks of ocean grit.   So let us treasure grains of sand In pockets, towels, across the land For in their journey, we may find Travellers of

 I always enjoy a challenge and last week fellow poet, Linda Mitchell issued a list of 'Clunker Exchange lines' and invited everyone to take up a line from the list and see where that might lead. we were also invited to exchange a clunker line of our own.  Upon making my choice, I immediately saw potential in the words on offer. I took them and played with the possibilities in my notebook. I gently surrounded them with new words, assisting my chosen line to nestle comfortably in to this new poetic location.  The resulting poem is in the form of Ars Poetica  which I have featured previously.   The Mud And The Flowers Words trip and stumble onto the page Leaving the pen unsettled Leaving the writer pondering the next hesitant action The fate of the very next line.   Those words, There, on the paper No doubt appear as A weedy patch of writing -should never see the light of day But they are there nonetheless Resting uncomfortably Awaiting possible erasure, A pen stroke, Revision, A

Last week attention returned to docupoetry in some of my discussion with fellow poets. That prompted me to return to the poetry vault and unearth this docupoem paying tribute to the brave and fearless, Amelia Earhart.  Docupoetry puts a bit of twist on information text. It contains a dose of fact and wraps it in a protective layer of supportive words. I read recently that marine explorers may have located the crash site of Amelia fatal flight. It currently remains as an enduring mystery. Let's take flight with the brave and daring Amelia as she ventures out to cross the Atlantic ocean, solo.   Amelia’s Aeronautical Achievement In a flight filled with danger wild, icy weather And a broken altimeter Amelia took off early one morning From Newfoundland In her Lockheed Vega -a frantic Atlantic flight unfolded. A copy of a local newspaper tucked under her arm Confirming her departure date And sharing local news far and wide. -No fake news for Amelia.   Along the

  This week I delved into my extensive poetry vault of unassigned pieces of verse and plucked out a pair of poems connected to the central theme of music. Sometimes it is about poetic form and sometimes it is about topics and themes. This time it is about both.  The first poem is an etheree poem and the second poem is an example of docupoetry. The unifying theme is music. Music is a life long thread in my life, so it is understandable that it should emerge in my poetry. I have a notebook dedicated to the musical memories that have constantly arisen in the course of my life. Music is so entwined in my history. Consider your links to music, your musical history and the influences on your listening tastes. It might surprise you...  Here are two of my music related poems.  Upon Hearing A Song For The First Time   First A note Softly calls Drawing me near Melody unfolds Captivating my heart Each verse a warm, sweet embrace Beguiled by tonal beauty Entranced by the sound of rising notes A ne

 Every summer Silver's circus comes to our town at a time when the numbers of visiting holiday makers and locals are at their zenith.  They stay for about a month over summer drawing crowds from all across the peninsula. Then suddenly, they are gone-off to their next location.   I have been inside the bigtop. Here is my poem to these annual circus visitors. I enjoyed the opportunity to indulge in a little wordplay... When The Circus Left Town When the circus left town  And the tent was folded away -The clowns cried The trapeze artist struggled to come to grips with the matter The fire eater contacted an old flame In search of a little warmth While the man they called the human cannonball Left with undue haste As if shot from a - For parts unknown The jugglers Couldn’t handle their despair  And all the while The ringmaster Walked in endless circles Intent on being stoic But still talking in a decidedly loud voice To anyone who would lend him an ear. ©Alan j Wright It is once again P

I have been this young poet. I have experienced the frustration that descends when topic choice is not offered and you are writing merely to please the teacher. This was me in Grade 5. In the interest of honest disclosure, this poem has autobiogrpahical underpinnings. It is a poem for all those quiet subversives. Names have been changed,  withheld to protect people, ants and cats... This poem is for all those young writers who want ownership, need ownership, in order to write with a sense of authenticity and voice.   I Don’t Want to Write A Poem About Cats Our teacher Ms Hydracklu Has insisted we write a poem about cats. Ms Hydracklu loves cats But they’re not exactly my favourite animal, or topic Since my sister’s cat –Princess Alice Peed in my track shoes. I sit in class Chomping on my pencil And staring at the floor under my seat It seems inspiration has run away to hide It’s turning into a –catastrophe… Suddenly, Ms Hydracklu announces- It doesn’t have to rhyme! I haven’t got a sin

In this post I am turning my attention back to the Trinet, a seven-line poetry form based purely on  its word count. Trinets are terrific! Here are the guidelines for writing a Trinet Poem: 7 lines Lines three and four have 6 words in each line All the other lines have 2 words per line The Trinet has no restrictions for rhyme, subject matter, or syllables. The trinet is pretty straight forward as a poetry form. Here are two examples of Trinet poems- Cake On A Plate Shall we? Should we Have another slice of orange cake? It would be shameful to waste We would Enjoy it I'm sure. Alan j Wright Fly By Night The fly spins constantly in those buzzing, death throe, circles A break dance of mortal magnitude Summertime pest Never welcomed Not mourned. Alan j Wright It is Poetry Friday and our host this week is Irene Latham. Irene's post is all about community Poetry Project and includes the composing of a progressive poem. Check it out at Irene's blog.