Proper Poetry Peasant

I recently entered a poetry contest for the first (and last) time. When I checked out the winners I realised that my stuff will never fit into any of their categories.

Went to a proper poetry party,

Where the people were properly proud,

Their posture was posey,

Pointing up with their nosey,

As they read proper poetry out loud.


And we all stood in awe of their presence.

Faces filled with wonder and glee,

As they said every line,

Perfect metre and rhyme,

But the meaning was missing for me.


When the poet stood up on the podium,

Performing to those he befriended

Though we wanted to laud,

We didn’t applaud,

Cos nobody knew when it ended.


It was really just clever word crafty,

Using metaphor, magic and mime.

Playing round with the sound,

Till the right pattern found,

Endless editing of every line.


It would seem that to write proper poems,

You must work very hard at your craft,

When the meaning’s obscured,

You can be reassured,

You can label your critics as daft.


You can say that they just didn’t get it,

If anyone there has the gall,

To ask you to explain,

Your repeated refrain,

Just belittle the ignorant fool.


So for me I will simply continue,

To write a short ditty or two,

Not bothered to polish

Until it is flawless

As long as the meaning comes through.


Poetry, art and wine tasting,

Are for people who are in the know.

They would have us believe,

That’s its hard to achieve,

But where are the Emperor’s clothes?


I’m a champion of simple verses,

Something any among us could do,

If you think this is fine,

Then raise up your wine

Let’s break down the elitist taboo.