Mixed ShakespeareFrom fairest creatures we desire increase,And dig deep trenches in thy beautys field,Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewestAnd being frank she lends to those are free.For never-resting Time leads summer onWhich happies those that pay the willing loan Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend,Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?Look whom she best endowed she gave the more;And die as fast as they see others grow; O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know Thy end is truths and beautys doom and date.
VillanelleI have to write a villanelle,A highly constrictive poetic style.Id rather be roasting away in hell.The rhyme schemes tough, it gives us hell.Ill probably be off by about a mile,But I have to write a villanelle.My brain has gone A.W.O.L.This poem will not be compiled.Id rather be roasting away in hellThan trying to get my body to expelA poem as slippery as a reptile.I have to write a villanelle.My stress over this poem the tarot does foretell.I dont think I will ever again smile.Id rather be roasting away in hell.This isnt very good, but on it I shant dwell.Its already starting to make me hostile.I have to write a villanelle;Id rather be roasting away in hell.
Journey from WestminsterCalling atSt. James ParkVictoriaSloane SquareSouth KensingtonEarls CourtWest BromptonFulham BroadwayParsons GreenPutney BridgeEast PutneySouthfieldsWimbledon ParkAnd Wimbledon.
Love in HackneyWhen I first met you I felt elation.I had never known a thing about loveBut you made me want to tell the nationWe were a perfect match, like hand and glove.You didnt even notice my acne.I thought your hair was simply so divineAnd so we set up a house in Hackney,And I pledged to forever make you mine.You were such a fine female specimen Past ideas of beauty you did transcend:I felt that you were like my oxygen.I thought our life together would not endBut now you have run off with my brother.But its OK; youd become your mother.
The Old DaysWe were always up for a good time,My friends and meBack in the day, before university reared its head,Wed wake from slumber in our bedsAnd wonder what the day would bringThink of everyone and everything.On sunny days, wed go to the parkAnd stay there until it got dark.Then wed go to someones house,Find some drink,And begin to plan our evening.They were always different but followed a format.Some things happened every time.I would start to sing and then get slapped.Harriet would do something disgusting and wed laugh.Sammy would smile endlessly. Ellie wouldnt say a thing.And someone would get so drunk they couldnt stand up.Louise.That was always Louise.Then we moved on.Three to London, two to the northwest,Two to Hampshire, one down to SomersetScattered like dandelion seedsAll across the country.Two stayed at home andContinued their lives in their own way.At Christmas we will be reunitedIf only for a few weeksReunited
What Does It All Mean?A catch, getting healthier, reach for a miracle.A critical, climatic, electric éclair.A hermit with malice, a heretic with a chalice.A cheetah and chimera, an ethical chemicalThis is what I know of myself, Michael Ritchie.A shirty sinner, with tyres that shriek.A hiker, a thinker, an intern, a yeti.A skirt in ninths, a terse yikes.A shiny insert, enshrine neither tinker.This is what I know of my friend Kristy Henney.A naked airhead with a hairnet.A knave that hinders the harvest.A sneakier servant, a vanished trainee.A thread of tiara thieveries.This is what I know of my friend Katherine Davies.A humanoid in uniform, sent to inform.A horrid hairdo and random rhino.A nomad, a friar, a druid.A diamond in armour.This is what I know of my friend Rhian Mudford.A smaller miser, arise easily.A memorial for memoirs, to boost morale.A sailor, a loyal oily royal.A slayer immorally yells for realism.This is what I know of my friend Lois May-Miller.A lewd leader, an a
Writing PoetryTodays assignment was to write a poem usingAs many of the techniques we were taughtIn class.Caught in a conundrum, creatively crushedTrying in vain to type up a verse.Maybe I should write a poem that I could singWould vocal exercises make me thin?Now, thats a half rhyme, sometimes called slantI think this poem is getting fullOf techniques so I can lullYou into thinking Im going to use real rhymesNot just eye rhymes, like that one.Should I make this whole poem rhyme?I really dont know if Ive got the time.Were told the content doesnt have to mean muchAnd I dont have the intent to make it mean muchThat little rhyme, do you see, was internalHeaven is cosy and hell is infernalOK, so I cheated, that meant nothing at allBut do you honestly expect me to play by the rulesAgain, its a half rhyme, now what about metre?Iambs and trochees and dactyls! Hey, Peter,This assignment is tricky; I dont know what to sayAnymo