K. Morris's Blog, page 40

Why Should I be Good

If we are going to hell in a handcart

Why should I be good?

Should my art be moral, when there is dark

In my imperfect heart?

 

 

When I am dead

I will not care what is said

Of me by she

Who must follow me  in due time.

 

 

Poets leave clues in rhyme

To their misspent lives

And the literary critic thrives

By interpreting lost lives.

 

 

I try to be good.

But when nymphs call

I recall what is good

And yet still fall.

Robots as Literary Translators

A thought provoking article in the Telegraph about the use of artificial intelligence in literary translation, https://www.telegraph.co.uk/books/authors/translation-artificial-intelligence-authors/. The author discusses whether AI can ever master the craft of the human translator.

 

Whilst I suspect that some simple texts may be more or less passable when translated by AI, even here errors will, I surmise occur. However, when it comes to Tolstoy’s War and Peace I can’t see AI being able to trans...

A Young Lady Who is Really Nice

A young lady who is really nice

Is known for her love of spice.

Her name is Miss Lott

And she likes it hot.

And she also likes curry and rice!

The Importance of Hope!

There once was a man named Hope

Who jumped out of a large envelope.

He gave a great shout,

Which caused quite a rout!

Then returned by post to Good Hope!

Were to Submit Your Poetry

A helpful list of places to submit your poetry, ranging from poetry magazines and journals through to publishers of pamphlets and books. https://poetryschool.com/theblog/where-to-submit-your-poetry-in-2023-2024/

 

Although this list refers to 2024, the vast majority of the publications will remain relevant in 2025 and beyond.

When a Wicked Old Rake Known as Winning

When a wicked old rake known as Winning

Said, “I’ve lost count of all the women

I have taken to bed”.

A young lady in red, said,

“With me you will not be winning, Winning!”.

Alexa Says it Won’t Rain Today

Alexa says it won’t rain today.

I put my coat on anyway.

Sure enough, it rains again.

Should I maintain

My faith in the reliability

Of modern technology?

No, today I shall pray

To the god of rain

And silently blast

The weather forecast!

 

Do that Again

When a beautiful young lady named Gwen

Said, “please go and do that again!”,

A writer called White

Smiled with great delight,

As again, he reached for his pen.

In the End

I desire to retire

To a house with old clocks.

There my poor words

Would be inspired by birds

And the clock’s slow tick tock.

 

 

I would forget my regret

And get lost in fine rhyme.

Women and wine

Would distract my mind

From passing time.

 

 

Young women’s heels click.

Old clocks tick.

But all must stop

In the end,

However much we pretend

They do not.

Halloween

I shiver in the churchyard on Halloween.

I have seen

No ghosts, just the open church door.

I am sure

There is nothing there to scare me,

Just ancient bones

Decaying under cold old stones.

 

It is said

The dead are forever dead.

Yet, when I leave the graves behind

I find the same mundane

Old suburban street, trodden by living feet,

Where quivering and shivering cease.