This week I have been closely examining Cento poems. A Cento poem is composed of various lines lifted from different poems. They are sometimes referred to as Patchwork or Collage poems. They are yet another form of found poetry. The idea is to gather appealing lines from poems to create a pool of content from which to choose the most suitable lines for your new poem. You are aiming for lines that might lend themselves to meshing together to create a cohesive work. The poet becomes a weaver- a weaver of words. You begin by choosing one or two lines per poem. Once you have your pool of lines you may commence to reconstruct, reconfigure and remix the word order of your chosen lines. You may also make them rhyme if you so choose. It is important to be consistent with your use of tenses and voice.  As a poetry form, Cento poems are quite old. They stretch back to the ancient Greek poet, Homer and the Roman poet, Virgil. Many famous poets have written Cento poems. Two examples of contempor

A recurring subject for many poets are those people who play, or who have played, a significant role in their lives. We are drawn to these people. They loom large when considering influence and impact. They may be close family members, friends, work colleagues. We know them so well. They almost dare us to capture something of them in words. Our significant others loom large in our lives. Across the years I have written about my father in several poems. This is the latest. This time memories of my father came calling while I was 36,000 feet in the air... No Denim For Dad It suddenly dawned on me During a flight from Singapore to Saigon... -My father never wore denim At any point Across his entire life. Unlike the man seated in the window seat next to me Adorned in double denim and a pair of garish Crocs. And as we sit sky high, enduring inaudible messages from the flight deck. I ponder what my father would have thought about my smart watch, my smart phone, Or any other smart gadgetry t

 It surprises me to think it has taken me so long to share this poem with you, as it stands as an enduring favourite of mine. I first heard it read during my university years and the words attached themselves strongly to my heart. It's like that with poetry.  The poem titled, 'The Host of The Air ' is by William Butler Yeats, a famed Irish poet. It seems most fitting to be finally sharing it with a wider audience on March 17th, St Patrick's Day. On one of my trips to Ireland, I made the pilgrimage to Yeats' burial site in Drumcliffe Parish Church cemetery in County Sligo  to pay homage.  The site has become both a shrine and a tourist attraction . I have also been privileged to view his notebooks in the Irish Writer's Museum in Dublin on two occasions.  The Host Of The Air O'Driscoll drove with a song The wild duck and the drake From the tall and the tufted reeds Of the drear Hart Lake. And he saw how the reeds grew dark At the coming of night-tide, And drea

Sometimes poetry results from an event, an observation of something, rare, unusual and worthy of extra attention.  The moment, the experience, becomes too significant to ignore, or let slide without acknowledging its impact... Last Saturday morning, my wife, Vicki alerted me to something quite unusual taking place in the sky above our house. She called me to come and look for myself. The sky was littered with a host of airborne dandelion seeds blowing in from the south of the peninsula. They stood out markedly against the blue Autumn sky. They were certainly in profusion. We were fascinated and began speculating as to the cause of such a significant seed migration. I recall how we referred to them as 'fairies' when we were children. Subsequently, it became apparent that this phenomenon had been widespread across the neighbourhood. A magical migration.  Curiosity aroused, I did some research, not knowing at the time, it would all lead to the writing of a poem. Gradually, though,

 Sometimes an idea for a poem emerges when you are not necessarily in that focused zone, it rises up like a wisp of smoke and you feel compelled to explore the possibilities... Only this week I met some young writers who were exploring different physical settings for their writing, and several of them informed me that poetry revealed itself to them and they felt compelled to write in response to that call. A similar thing happened as I was compiling a list of the places I have lived throughout my life. It all began as a list making exercise. I was hoping to find new writing ideas hidden in the extensive list of places I have lived throughout my life; my personal home history. As I looked at my list, an idea for a poem emerged, and so I followed its siren song... Clearly, it's a list poem, but it's also uniquely personal. It reminds me of an iceberg, where a portion is revealed, but so much more lies beneath the surface. A bit intriguing and worthy of more excavation.  My Marvel