red poppies; blue sky

red poppies; blue sky; chain link fence

No particular reason for posting this, other than that I’m back in the village after my UK trip, the page needs brightening up a bit. and the dynamic contrast of colours caught my eye en route to the pueblo this morning.

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

4 thoughts on “red poppies; blue sky”

  1. obPoem

    The sky is blue, the poppies red,
    as poetasters always said.
    It’s good to know that it’s still true:
    poppies are red and sky is blue.

    Perish the thought that poppies might
    one day spring up less nice and bright,
    or that the sky might one day fall;
    such thoughts would never do at all.

    Blue be the sky and red the flower
    that decorate our rustic bower.
    Red be the flower and blue the sky
    that in our cheerful vision lie.

    Though cold is blue and blood is red
    and all the best who lived are dead
    and in the ground we’ll soon both lie,
    still red’s the poppy, blue’s the sky.

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    1. For a brief moment, when I read your comment, I thought of recategorising this post as ‘poetry’. But a positive view of things doesn’t have to be unrealistic, does it, so I won’t.
      I could add a new category for ‘doggerel’ , but I was trying so hard not to lower the tone.

      (Does blog etiquette demand I say ‘thank you for reading and for sharing’ ? If so, consider it said.)

      Like

      1. How anybody could be so tasteless as to associate my perfectly beautiful, perfectly mystical and perfectly erotic (but in a family-friendly way) poem with the word “doggerel” is a mystery to me. I can only assume that you’re envious of my all-surpassing poetry skillz.

        Hmmph!

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      2. Now I’m really tempted to add a category for “family-friendly eroticism”, but fear that would be foolhardy.
        Instead, I’ll focus on “doggerel”, quoting Brian Patten saying that for him “One of the litmus tests of whether or not a person is a good poet […] is how well they write about cats.”
        So here’s some catterel from many years ago:

        There’s a cat in Mum’s back garden,
        under the hydrangea;
        in the bush above it, sits
        a thrush who is a stranger
        to the neighbourhood, and, clearly,
        is oblivious to the danger.
        Who will come and rescue him?
        Let’s call for the Lone Ranger!

        Like

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