Port of Poems: for pirates, smugglers and other rogues

Given the popularity of the Portal to Fairy Tale Poetry, I thought, why not pirates and the like!
With links to my poetry, some great poets, and some I've just found. If you find some more, I'd love for you to leave a comment, or for my shy friends, (you know who you are:) ), talk to me and I'll add them.

In the meantime, 
Enjoy!
(poems are in alphabetical order)

A Ballad of John Silver by John Masefield

We were schooner-rigged and rakish, with a long and lissome hull,
And we flew the pretty colours of the cross-bones and the skull;  

read aloud or read the words yourself

 

A Smuggler's Song by Rudyard Kipling

An amazing poem...if you don't remember, it starts like this...
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.

Articles of Faith

Part 1: Pirate's life & Part 2: How Doth the Deinosuchus

Part 3 Dancing Pirates by A.J.Ponder

The use of pirates as a metaphor for

Cargoes by Poet Laureate John Masefield

Nice contrast of the exotic against industrial Britain. And in the juxtaposition lies the tragedy. The poem is featured by both Helen McKinlay and Helen Lowe on their Tuesday Poem blogs.

Here be Dragons by A.J. Ponder

Yo ho
and there's a map to
where the skeletons lie,
sunning themselves
on the sand and
Spanish gold...

 

Murdering Poetry by A.J. Ponder

I would kill... 

Timothy The Pirate by Charles M. Moore

 "...Timothy the pirate
he didn't like the sea..."

Piracy by A.J. Ponder

I still quite like this, it's space pirates (so insane) and the pace gathers momentum as the tragedy unfolds. :)

Pirate Story by Robert Louis Stevenson

I'm not sure how anyone can resist the cute version of kids playing pirate on the lawn.

And so, there we have them all. The pirates we love to love, and love to hate, have a great week! And if you haven't yet had enough poetry, there are always more fabulous poems on the Tuesday Poem Hub, or on my blog,

 

A.J.

Find my stories and support my writing on ko-fi 

And tell me which poems you'd like to see in my upcoming poetry book—2024? https://ko-fi.com/ajponder

Remember, Remember the Babes in the Wood

I was busy murdering babies

As you do

The cherub grins

Gone.

The sapphire-eyed,

Dark skinned,

Beauties --

All dead.

It's enough to make a writer cry.

It's enough

To make

You throw away the pen

Tear apart the keyboard,

Key,

By stinking key

But, 
my babies,

I loved your family

just enough

To see you die

Forgotten,

Unloved.

Your silent tears

Echoing through

To your brothers

And sisters,

As they hang their heads

Onto the bloodied page

And weep.

There's a common author expression. "Murder your darlings" or sometimes "kill your darlings" And no, it's not about the characters. It's about our words. As authors we love our words, but sometimes they just don't fit the longer piece we were planning to put them into—and what that means for writers is that just because you've written a nice piece of prose it doesn't mean it should stay in your writing. If it doesn't fit, no matter how pretty, it should be cut. 

And that's tough. But in the end your writing will be better. But more than that, the emotional impact will be all the stronger for having written and then cut that delightful bit of prose.

Happy writing authors, and happy reading readers,

 A.J. Ponder - author page

 

Find my stories and support my writing on ko-fi 

And tell me which poems you'd like to see in my upcoming poetry book—2024? https://ko-fi.com/ajponder

Murdering Poetry

I would kill

for a voice that could read poetry

as finely honed as a boning knife

Plunged into the heart.

Incisive as fangs

sliced across arteries

spilling blood in fountains

onto the slavering faces

of howling wolves

 

My cheerful brogue slipping

into dark nightmares

and flourishing

as a bone deep canker

eating you away

from the inside

and slipping

the noose

tight 
around your neck

until the air

kicking under your heels 
is still.

See, the powdered words

no longer dry upon the page
arise

a poisoned ink

that flows

within your veins

and through your soul

until your heart

no longer pains

and your death is wholly 
entertain'd.

A..J. Ponder - 

It always amazes me just where and how inspiration strikes.  This poem has been brewing dormant for the best part of a year but it wasn't until Harvey commented on Rudyard Kipling that it hurried out faster than a smuggler with the redcoats after him. 

Click here for more poetry, back at the Tuesday Poem hub: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com/