Whether Weather

It has been eight months since I began this Poetry Daily. If I keep it up for another month will I have a book? I am amazed that I have been able to write and post every day (once or twice I was  late because our internet connection was interrupted when the generator up at Corry Mountain ran out. This is rural broadband. When the electricity cuts out, so does the wifi. Our cell/mobile signals are pretty feeble so I keep my smartphone inintelligent.) I have managed it juggling workshop prep and classroom time, migraine headaches and family bereavements. Not to mention the soap opera and tragedy of the daily world news. I do consider stopping from time to time. But it is rather fearful to contemplate what would my morning routine be like without poetry practice. I consider that I could just keep it up and not post. But the posting bit has been an important component of keeping me honest. And at it. Would I be as disciplined without it. 

But I do need to carve out some editing    time. These poems are written fast and furious. They could be made better with time and judicious changes or cuts or additions. For that I need time, which in 2019 has been a bit of an acrobatic act. I have made a promise to complete a poetry collection manuscript by the year’s end. Half the year is nearly gone already! I do realise that I need to come to some decision whether or not the Poetry Daily may need to become a Weekly to allow me the thinking time to pull that off. 

But I digress from the Poetry Daily for this Monday. The new poetey form tried out this morning comes from France, although John Keats dabbled with it. The dizain is a 10 x 10 poem – ten lines of ten syllables each. It has a ababbccdcd rhyme scheme. The subject is the eternal conversation topic, the weather. Those of us who live in the British Isles never tire of. I once was walking down the main street of Drumshambo during a St. Swithin’s curse of a rainy spell. I met a stranger, “Desperate weather!” She shouted it against the torrent. All I could respond was, “Aye!” To ensure a fine day for our wedding in a marque three years ago I adopted the local custom of putting out an Infant of Prague statue. In a summer that had been lacklustre we had the most brilliant sunny day. Oh weather gods, how kind! 

The Weather

We never cease to talk about weather.

How we have four seasons all in one day.

That it is wise, don’t you think, to tether

the lawn furniture. It’s Force 5. But, hey!

I suppose it gives a party cachet

carrying on come what May, despite flood

or hurricane or ankle deep mud.

Weather builds character, resiliance!

Plans lamented. Visitors stranded.

We live in hope. The weather laughs at us.
Copyright 2019 Bee Smith

About the Weather

climate change

Perhaps because I was talking about the haiku kigo, or seasonal word yesterday to the primary school kids, weather is on my mind. (Kids, rain in Ireland is like the evergreen tree; it is with us always. We need to be like Eskimos and have more than one word in our vocabulary to indicate the variations and grades of rain in Ireland – like mizzle, a fine mist, raining stair rods, etc.) But I digress from the point of today’s poetry practice. Weather is on one of the lists for gratitude. But perhaps because I am feeling a tad chilled and kind of Kermit the Froggy, I am more under the weather than feeling grateful for it.  At any rate, I woke sneezing and then decided I needed to try a new poetry form to mix it up.  I found a wonderful web resource for up to 86 kinds of poetry forms to try on for size at http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/list-of-50-poetic-forms-for-poets

So I decided to try out the decima, a ten line poem with a rhyme scheme. You get a bonus poem today, because there are two variations, one from Latin America/Puerto Rico and the other from Italy. Both are composed of ten lines with each line having eight syllables. The rhyme schemes vary.

First up is the Latino version.

About the Weather

If, like me, you shun dawn mornings

and need caffeine intravenous

to face the new day, its brashness…

If, like me, you look for warnings

(since shepherds and sailors are bust,

employed elsewhere earning their crust)

meteorologists will have

their job’s worth reckoning to salve

worries about cruellest winds’ gusts.

Copyright © Bee Smith 2018

But since I am also concerned for those Californians living in the Bay Area and Los Angeles who are experiencing terrifying wildfires, I wrote this. My friend in San Jose reports that even though they go out with breathing masks against the smoke, there is no protection for the eyes, that are smarting from the poor air quality.


Where there is fire, there is smoke.

Where there is fire, there is ash.

It consumes, belches, then it chokes

the life from what is in its path.

Something shall survive, I suppose,

phoenix-like – that mythological bird

who can rise and rise above all

mass destruction, landscape altered.

Earth, too. Turned to fireball.

And this was the fate human’s chose.

Copyright © Bee Smith 2018

Meanwhile, Nero fiddles while climate change burns.

Featured image: Photo by Matt Howard on Unsplash