#12weekrhymespeak intro

How it came about? I’m not quite sure
Why exactly? I was unaware before
I took the vow to speak this way….


… except I knew that joy erupts when
rhythm and rhyme come out to play.


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Epic Context:

From birth, at breakfast we were fed a pun or ditty -
’Bad Dad’s’ grin a hint that reference to something shitty
or worthy of a cringe was being brewed:
our rhyming tea was of the moment, never stewed

My mother danced and sang so rhythm was the marrow fat within my bones
I wrote (and read) my poetry in teenage mournful tones
song-writing meant I wasn’t a fan of my time’s appetite for free verse
thrumming rhythms shaped my rhymes - both kiss and curse

Before the silent keyboards of today
typewriters made music, so did scratching fountain pens in their own way
and Pitmans shorthand too lent some kind of flow
but nature led me most to rhyme… many many years ago

Like the rhymes and music of the sea
of crashing waves which shingled sentences
changing tempo imperceptibly
as, indeed, do we…

Fast forward to a life of admin in the City
seven day weeks, abuse (not pretty)
journalled now but then too hard and gritty
for poetry to scream out loud
anyway, my ‘me too’ would be lost among the crowd
and yet I heard terror beneath the creaks and groans
of voices on The Boards of corporations
I heard fear as they clutched tight their mobile phones

I trained to be a voice coach
my job to free directors from their ‘umm’ and ‘err’
and underneath - always - lingered some sweet strain
of who they were
and every client got a vocal poem to chant
which made the music of themselves ring true
drawing out an essence which they absolutely knew
voiced the way love moved as their unique expression
free to speak without the mind’s invidious self-oppression

I married Robin - composer, piano player and lover of the Celtic melody
we talked in rhyme on journeys
with his help I self-published my first book of poetry

the story since would take me far too long to tell
except to say that I found tea and steeped in its intoxicating spell
and I’ve learned to dance the poetry of Being -
magic Biodanza - restorative and freeing

But around me I hear nature crying and I tweet in prose
on my doorstep species which I love are dying
how long have we got? No one really knows
and funeral dirges fill the air with gloom
there’s so much noise and rage and hate there’s little room
or reason to see why or how
the sound of rhyme could have a value now…

… and yet, I cannot gossip in rhyme
it liberates my language for a time
and it’s hard to be a bitter judge in ‘tum-ti-tum’
when joy insists I end this sentence bum, bum, bum!

The paradox of this discipline
is that it frees the part of me still ‘child’
subject to the moment’s rhythm may be
this will help our bodies, hearts and earth re-wild?


Curious? Want to have a go? Read or recite The Rules here.