The First Thing You Should Do.

By R.M. Hamilton

There are lots of kinds of poems in English. This series will teach you how to write the sort of poem that people expect to find in a children’s picture book.

This kind of poem will have a strong foundational beat, a predictable rhythm and perfect rhymes.

Some people think poems are easier to write than prose. I think this is because prose fills up the entire page with words. That looks like a lot of work!

Poems appear as a thin collum of writing down the middle of the page.

This looks like a lot less work!

But poems are the hardest form of writing in English. This is because there are many more rules for this kind of writing.

The good news is anyone can learn these rules. And once you have learnt the rules, you will be able to bash out poems with the best of them.

If you want to write good poetry, first you must read the really good stuff. Poetry is the most musical form of writing in English. It involves a little bit of math.

There are two ways you can learn about math in poems.  You can count out a lot of poems until you can find the beat.

But a better way is to train your ear to do it intuitively.

To do this, you will need to memorize a few lines of poetry. Don’t worry if you can’t memorize the lines by heart.

If you can’t remember all the words, GOOD!

Just make a sound for the word you can’t remember. At this stage, you are only training your ear to hear the foundational beat.

Try memorizing one or two verses of a really good poem. Then chant them loudly whenever you are alone and feel relaxed.

Chanting is important. It will force you to listen to the beat! Below are some really good poems to start with.

In the next lesson, I will demonstrate how to actually find the mathematical foundation of a poem.

Until then, use these great English poems to train your ear! If you scroll down to the end of this blog post, you will find a link to my YouTube video, which will give you further tips.

St George and the Dragon

by Alfred Noyes

St George he slew the dragon,

But he didn't shout hurray.

He dumped it in the wagon

Just to clear the mess away.

But the wagoner he sold it

To a showman at the Fair,

And when St George was told it

He was almost in despair.

For the people crowded round it

To admire its teeth and claws,

But St George he was an Englishman

And did not like applause.

"The creechah weighed a ton at most,"

He muttered through his vizahd.

"I do not feel inclined to boast

About that puny lizahd."

Annabel Lee

 By Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

The Brook

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I come  from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,

By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,

I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret

by many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,

with here a blossom sailing,

And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel

With many a silver water-break

Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers;

I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;

I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses;

I linger by my shingly bars;

I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.