Richard J. N. Copeland - Recently Updated Pages

Richard J. N. Copeland Home

Dickpoet — Tue, 19 May 2009 11:44:59 CDT

First, a brief introduction.

I am a poet and writer living in Stevenage, Hertfordshire and I hope you enjoy your visit to this Wetpaint wiki.

I have been writing on and off for about thirty years, but I have not done much of note until recently. My early influences were Ted Hughes and T. S. Eliot. Later, I came to appreciate the work of e. e. cummings and this in turn led me to better understand the work of more avant garde poets like J. H. Prynne, whose work I admire.

Since joining the Letchworth poetry group Poetry I. D., my outp ut has increased and so, I hope, has the quality of my work. Since then, the group has become the Poetry Society's Stanza for North Hertfordshire. More can be read about Stanzas by visiting the Poetry Society's website (see links).

I have had poems published in various magazines, including First Time, Envoi, Dream Catcher, Quantum leap, The Black Mountain Review, among others and, more recently, The Frogmore Papers.

On the 6th July 2007 I made my TV debut on BBC Look East, reading a poem for Formula 1 racing driver Lewis Hamilton that was specially commissioned by the BBC.

My new collection, This is not a Sonnet, has recently been published by Survivors' Press in London (ISBN 798-1-874595-25-0). This collection of thirty-eight poems includes some of my earlier work and is available from Survivors Press, Studio 11, Bickerton House, 25 - 27 Bickerton Road, London N19 5JT.

I have also written a lengthy marginal science fiction novel, The Cylinder, which is now available via Amazon, or through leading book stores (ISBN 978-1-84923-930-1). It tells the story of what happens when a mysterious cylindrical object is unearthed during an archaeological dig and the psychological effect it has on those who come too close to it. To visit the appropriate Amazon.uk page to find out more, click here, or for Amazon.com, click this link.

I am the Poetry Society's Stanza rep for North Hertfordshire.

More of my work may be read on http://poetry-id.wetpaint.com/ and http://www.poetry-id.co.uk

For more information on the Poetry Society, go to www.poetrysociety.org.uk/

More useful links may be found by clicking on my Poetry Links page.

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This is a new website and I look forward to receiving visitors. Please come again. In time, more poetry and, I hope, some prose will be added. This is only the beginning.

Poetry Links

Dickpoet — Sun, 17 May 2009 11:57:52 CDT

(In no particular order)

First in this list is the Poetry Society, already mentioned on the homepage, but worth mentioning again. This will be found at www.poetrysociety.org.uk/

Here you may catch up on the news in the poetry world and discover the benefits of membership. Events at the Poetry Cafe are also listed here.

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A new and very interesting website is the Poetry Archive. This is the brainchild of former Poet Lauriate Andrew Motion and it contains some rare and valuable recordings of poets reading their own work as well as biographies of the poets in question. There is much more else besides and it is well worth a visit.

If you are interested in a particular poet, go to http://www.poetryarchive.org.uk/ and find out what you want to know.

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Another extremely useful site is The Poetry Kit. This is an excellent website for any poet looking for information on magazines, poetry publishers, writing groups and poetry events. The Poetry Kit is an international site, dealing with poetry from every continent, not just the UK and USA. It is funded by the Arts Council of England and has won awards within the poetry world for its accessibility and wide range of advice and information.

It may be found on www.poetrykit.org/ and is a must for anyone interested in poetry.

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As part of its 50th anniversary in 2003, the Poetry Library launched its new website: www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/. Here, a selection of poetry magazines may be viewed. Related to this is the Poetry Library's own website: www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/. This is a mine of useful information concerning the latest poetry competitions, plus most of what has been published in the poetry world; books, collections, anthologies, etc.

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The paumanok Review is a quarterly e-zine. It publishes high quality writing in various genres including poetry, short fiction and essays. Each issue has an interview with a leading writer as its feature. The bias of the magazine is towards writing from America, but writers from other parts of the English speaking world are also included. The paumanok Review can be read by going to: www.paumanokreview.com/

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Poetry London is a well known magazine with an excellent website that is extremely useful for surveying the current poetry scene in and around London. There is also a good, comprehensive list of poetry venues in the London area so, if you want to know what is happening on the poetry circuit, log onto www.poetrylondon.co.uk/

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One very useful website is http://rhyme.poetry.com/ This is an on-line rhyming dictionary and thesaurus, and is handy for those who write rhyming verse, but it does not stop there. With it, you can also find synonyms, definitions, related words, similar sounding words and homophones. It will also match consonants and letters. A very useful tool.

Incidentally, it failed to find a rhyme for orange!

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A most useful site for inspiration is the Guardian newspaper. Here you may find a series of workshops, all set by established poets and really handy if you are stuck for an idea. To find some good inspiration, go to http://books.guardian.co.uk/poetryworkshop/

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Survivors Poetry is an organisation essentially dealing with poetry written by survivors of mental distress, together with issues related to mental health. Their magazine, Poetry Express, formally a paper magazine, is currently available only on-line and may be downloaded as a PDF. Survivors Poetry may be visited on www.survivorspoetry.com/

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Great Works is an interesting e-zine. To quote their own introduction:

"Great Works is a site for innovative writing: modernist, postmodernist, archaic. It proclaims the need to let a thousand flowers bloom, and rejects any single definition of what writing is, It welcomes alternative poetries and other writing. It proudly offers no retrieval of coherence at a higher interpretative level."

It does contain a selection of innovative and experimental poetry and is regularly updated by its editor Peter Philpot. It may be viewed on www.greatworks.org.uk/

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An interesting on-line e-zine is Zafusy. According to its homepage, it will soon be available in print form - in association with 14 Hour and Littlest Birds. New work is invited for this. Zafusy is an attractive site with an open layout that does not distract the reader and its pages are uncluttered, the emphasis being on content alone. There is a page with submission guidelines for those thinking of sending their work in for possible publication. It is important that you view the content of the magazine before submitting work.

It may be viewed on www.zafusy.com/. It is worth a visit.

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Another interesting magazine is erbacce. The name is Italian for Weed and, like a weed, they intend to spread. While it is a 'radical' magazine, the accent is firmly on good,well-crafted poetry. Find out more about erbacce on www.erbacce.com or www.erbacce-press.com. They also have a site on Myspace. Go to www.myspace.com/erbacce. The co-editor, Andrew Taylor's own website is www.andrewtaylorpoetry.com

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OK, I cannot leave this section without putting in another plug for Letchworth poetry group Poetry I. D. This group has two websites, the main one being www.poetry-id.co.uk/. They also have a Wetpaint wiki at http://poetry-id.wetpaint.com/. Enjoy!

Poetry Page 1

Dickpoet — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 13:02:16 CDT

Some older stuff

The Curve of Desire

You sit at a slight angle.
The red plastic chair curves
in imitation of your form
as silvery folds in your dress picture
flowing lines of aluminium sheen
stretched over smooth skin.

The slow curve of your forearm lies
easy by the hem,
light catching metallic reflection,
shadow-dark beneath casts of red.
This projection of colour
catches my gaze.

We do not speak; your angle says enough.
A suggestion of movement flickers
in this silent composition
where a cool sweep of silver draws
the curve of desire.

Jazz Riff 1

Through it comes dot pop zero signifies
tiny speck cosmic jet pulls each
the smallest spot not insignificant
single fencepost supports
nothing drawn.

This is not whatever you suppose
as it might be pointing zero to the wall
signs on the line winding over
elevator remembers flashback of splash
plunges deep

as some finger-flick tenor riff blows
up your jumper tits feel and breaking dips
colour to the wind. Plays the tune
making much of it and plastered over
crumhorn buzz sphincter tight

trips binding power over one two three
go and be ready on the beat pilling bulbs
in the sun golden apple of parsec marble
brings it in Dominae Deus huff-puff
trump card wool flying dusty

specks irritating eyes, throat, nasal passage
upfucking the square blows it
hard and soft reveals pictures
hidden, loves to sing but based with ending
reveals pipework curved to sound

bluenote shafts air Manhattan
echoes the mind
spontaneous thoughts
skyline building
ends.

Tarantula

Where does this track lead me past stick and fallen leaf
I wander without purpose it seems but I have to do it
pattering the leaf litter a foot and a foot one after another
I walk great distance by night beneath the dark thing
overhead is always canopy something moving
danger ever present in vibration sensed but I must
still roam in search of what I don't yet know
I do know it will be there one day waiting or not
but I shall be ready for that moment which is why
this floor of leaves urges me on.

Yet what am I, what size or shape this urge to kill
overwhelms my slow walk as I strike not knowing
why except to eat this or that coincides well
keeps me going I must go search turn leaves
till I find that with which my life is charged
encountering desire over what might kill me
but that is not important overhead is darkness
beneath rustling feet as I go on searching
for what I cannot understand but I'll keep looking
touching silk that invites now into evermore.

Don't Let Yesterday Use up Too Much of Today
Cherokee proverb

This poem appeared in Issue 21 of 'Dream Catcher' in April 2008

Yesterday uses

too much today

stop
it
now

Prevent it from devouring

your time your

memories of then impinging

in-
sinuating themselves

in times present eating away

heart burning
frets
worries of then

into now or what comes next

pushed
into

the present by

too much yesterday

lets
it in
forcing open

Oh don't open it

or beget ghosts of then

to populate our
[infinitely]
small present

Crying the Moon

When you were a child you reached for the moon,
could not quite grasp it, failed to understand
or read its distant dial, not yet seeing
the taunting, pock-marked smile -
a dish of secrets.

So you cried for what you might not own,
the love of this and many other things
unattainable to probing fingers
pushing hard the gates of reason,
the what and why and how

forcing boundaries, unaware
as yet of their existence. Yes, you cried,
wanting that orb of light for a charm
but still it hung, a silver-leaf icon
placed there as if to tease.

Now, so far on, the moon has changed its face.
You cannot grieve for what you cannot have.
It's all too much, too far and anyway
the mystery is solved. The bootprint's stamp
remains; a fat lip planted on the mask
of a treasure that you once held dear.

Note: With the exception of Don't Let Yesterday Use up Too Much of Today, all other poems featured here are from my recent collection, This is not a Sonnet.

Poetry Page 3

Dickpoet — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 11:57:14 CST

Some more up to date work

Lepidoptera

The star-strewn night glimmers
a matrix of light;
a buckshot colander,
the sky-dome projects its dreams
to the eyes of those who imagine

the water carrier,
the aged crab,
that centaur with his drawn bow
and the scorpion

but who sees the butterfly?

Look and you might find
its wings spread over black:
a benediction, which is why
it is not counted.

The old gods were vengeful.
No place in their realm for a butterfly,
rather the ones that they condemned,
else blasted to the heavens.

The butterfly did nothing
but brighten the meadow,
cause poets to wonder,
lead the fool to stray
to find illusion;

a flashlight
in destiny's darkness.

The Shadow of the Bear

Take four paces, nod three times
and turn,
then repeat.

I do not need to see this, yet I do.
The awful fascination of a mind destroyed
draws like an execution
the hidden face of nothing.

four paces, nod three times
and turn.
Repeat

the end of a story
that had no beginning.
No more the great ice bear
but a bombed-out skull
that nods and turns,
nods and turns, never to know
the blues and violets of a white land
without land; a concrete grey routine
that day by day

provides food,
comfort

and still those four paces
and still the three nods;
just do it again
and do it again
forever.

Note: this poem is based on a polar bear I saw some time ago in a zoo compound.
The bear was repeating the same actions over and over again:
a process known as stereotyping. It is perhaps best if I do not name the zoo.

The Genesis of Language

Where words once flew wild
language was born.
It missed its target,
a misshapen bullet of verb
flew wide and failed,
ricocheted to nothing
and the world began.

The Green Man

Each spring he arrives with a smile
and a promise seldom kept;
hair flowered with fresh blossoms,
his lips parted in greeting.

Profligate summer's lecherous leer
distorts his face to a semblance of smile:
a mocking filigree of wheat sways
to his breath, his warmth the sun's.

Autumn sees him mellow, stern
to the approach of what must come, now toned
to russet and gold, eyes acute
to the slow advance of age

and now winter, bare-branched
root-entangled mop of bramble,
his rheumy eyes weak with memories
of fungus and halted growth.

Do not fear for him, he will be reborn.
Fear for him on his return with steady tread
and flaming eye. He is not dead,
he sleeps each insult to a dream

that on awakening he will repay.

Night Trip

We are between here and there.
The windows betray no sign;
it might be anywhere for all I know.
At night all places look the same,

just lights, streets of houses,
a few shops and stuff
too indistinct to call or name.

The mush of tyre, a glint of rail
and the moon's pale light
ghosts hedgerows, outlines trees
in white on black.

What time is it? It doesn't matter.
It could be any time or none at all;
a clutter of events,

a stream of headlights destined
for some other place. Heads droop,
ears numbed to recorded tunes
as the road rolls

and sleep will not come, just
lights lights lights,
the night passing against time,

destination's blank canvas
captured by a half dream,
imagined places
never seen.

Poetry Page 2

Dickpoet — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 11:02:46 CST

Some more recent stuff

Note found in a Baobab Tree

Left to it, I would not have climbed this tree
but, since it was here and so was the lion,
I was left with little option.

Not knowing if it was a man-eater or not
and disinclined to ask, I climbed
clear of the jaws, thankful
it was not a leopard.

It showed little interest and stalked off
but I remain, baobab housed,
part of it and uncertain what to do
with courage & rifle gone.

Here I am safe, yet I fear falling.
Still, these branches enfold,
hold me secure, so I leave this note.

Should you find it, remember this hunter
as one unknown. The buzzards wait -
they can have me, an outsider
soon to learn what it is to be

on the inside, no longer separate
but integral. Perhaps somewhere
it has always been so,
so think of me now and pass on.

Permanent Red

Permanent red will be the last colour
when the stars flare up and fade to dark
it will remain, stubborn to the end
like a bloody-minded socialist
not accepting the way things are
it will linger, a small ghost
of what once was
an attribute of summer days.
And long ago when time was then
it was there to dare the onlooker,
a scarlet flag to enrage, turn on,
spark resentment, revolution,
blood spilt in the shade of its banner,
it witnessed all and stood away.
So as the sky closes
in one last scene
red will remain
the final colour, defiant to the dark
and unrepentant.

Reckless

There was no stopping
this runaway train
ignoring warnings
all signals passed
at danger
red disregarded
taking the chance
all risks as nothing

not till the last time
(there has to be one)
not until then
like the wreck of the 95
MPH tanking -
the buffers awaiting
one cataclysmic embrace
before goodnight

and not until
all around the stars
flashed once
and blinked in surprise
before the dark
closed in forever
in a long scream
of amen and hiss

only then did he read
the message
(come too late)
& stop

Northern Beaches

Northern beaches cast long shadows
where deckchairs lounge, billowing defiant
colours echoing the Viking sails of tougher times.
Now people sit to view a cold grey sea.

Not here the flash and sparkle of more sunny climes
but a grim determination to see the day out;
eyes avoiding the lowering cloud that might
bring rain to clear the shore and send them scurrying

to the pub or car to wonder why they came.
But come they did to catch
a fickle summer sun that might not show;
an errand born of hope over expectation

while the bandstand man in a white suit plays the Hammond,
sheltered from impending rain before his audience
retreats, leaving him to play alone
to whirling papers and a dropped ice cream.

I have walked these windswept beaches, learned to love them.
Busy or deserted, I have sensed their moods,
picked up their shells and stars and long decided
that things should stay like this, a kind of treasure.

Alabaster

Pliant, it reflects
the artist's will to carve
the effigy of one not seen,
as if some spirit inhabited
the stone to give it life;
transform unfeeling mineral
to a semblance suggested
by the hand that guides the blade -
the spirit of creation drawn
from dream
to figurine -
a vision made flesh
by the guiding hand
that knows its power.

Resignation Rap

Tired of
the put-down, push-around cut-throat world
of fast buck get-it-on piss on all below you;
brow beating, scene stealing give me all the glory,
your money and your threats
and I quit.

My mind
is made up, backed up, fed up with your bullshit,
promises of paradise devoid of any meaning,
elsewhere, I don't care, I've simply had enough
of your bullying and lies
and I quit.

You can't
push me, scold me, sit on me, you succubus;
use me as your punch bag and beat my spirit senseless,
put me on the rough end of all your double dealing.
I've taken all I can
and I quit.

Attention to detail

Dickpoet — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 11:22:06 CDT

The title of this article sounds like something from an art course. In a manner of speaking, it is.

Attention to detail is as important to writing as it is for any other art form. Few poems are ever complete with the first draft. Re-reading the work after a day or so, or even an hour will show a number of flaws that will need correcting. Indeed, some of these flaws will have you wondering how on earth you managed to miss them on the first reading. Some of them really jump out from the page during this process while their creator was blissfully unaware of them while putting the words down on the page.

One of the most common of these flaws is repetition. This is OK when it is intentional, such as in a constantly repeated refrain, but when it is accidental it merely looks sloppy, especially when two or more lines end with the same word. There then follows the process of finding an alternative word or words that will provide an effective substitute for the original text.

I have sometimes found repetitions after re-reading the work several times and after a period of days in a poem that I had thought was finished. Somehow, they had managed to slip through the net. To be fair, these repetitions are not immediately obvious, but they are there all the same and should be dealt with in the same manner as the more obvious ones.

Another fault arises with the use of unnecessarily long words. It may seem clever to use polysyllabic words, but beware. Too many syllables in a word merely has the effect of breaking the natural rhythm of the poem and producing a decidedly nasty bump in the line. If a polysyllabic word fits the line without jarring or breaking the rhythm, then by all means use it, but be careful. If it is wrong, it will stick out from the poem like a carbuncle and be just as disfiguring to the work.

Rhythm & Metre

These two are commonly confused. All too often, metre is imperfectly understood and, consequently, is vilely abused. Many of us cannot count the number of bad poems that have been inflicted on us with tortured lines and laboured rhyming schemes. If a poem is to have a metre, then it has to be regular, consistently starting with a strong or weak syllable, according to the metre chosen by the writer. Whichever foot is chosen, be sure it remains the same throughout. For example, most people will be familiar with iambic pentameter. Thomas Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard is a good example of this. The opening line: 'The curfew tolls the knell of parting day' is an often quoted example of this, beginning with a weak syllable, followed by a strong one and alternating strong/weak, so that each line has ten syllables, five of which are strong. This pattern is often diagrammed as: / - / - / - / - / -, where / represents a weak syllable and - a strong one. The important thing is that this metric scheme remains the same throughout. / - / - / - / - / -, followed by - / - / - / - / - / does not work. If you reverse the order, it is even worse.

Free verse, which by definition has no metre, should still have a rhythm. This is easier to say than actually achieve. When I was only just starting out in poetry, I remember asking a lecturer in English for some kind of definition of free verse and was told to use the natural rhythms of speech. This did not help me much, in fact it took a long time for this advice to sink in. In time I came to understand this better, but even now I will confess that I often find it difficult to comprehend how a poem with varying line lengths and no metre at all can still have a rhythm, but it does nonetheless. There is a definite difference between a free verse poem and a prose piece that even the untrained eye will spot.

A wrong word that breaks this rhythm will eventually betray its presence by simply looking wrong. Again, like accidental repetition, it is not always immediately obvious, but be assured if you don't spot it, someone else will.

I have in the past reworked a poem no less than ten times before I was anything like satisfied with it. Each time I thought it was finished, I would spot something else I did not like and change it. This is normal. It is said that Dylan Thomas would sometimes take days pondering over a single line.

Are all poets obsessives? That could be the theme for a future article.

Poetry Articles & Essays

Dickpoet — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 11:41:16 CDT

Nature Poetry - is it relevant?

The title of this essay is deliberately thought-provoking. First, let me state that Nature and the inspiration that Nature provides is never far from my writing. In a materialistic age where one might think we have moved as far from Nature as it is possible to get, we are now learning that we are an integral part of the delicate balance that some call Gaea, or the global ecosystem. For centuries, we have flattered ourselves with the idea that we are above Nature; in some way elevated to the exalted position of Lords of Creation. We are finding out now to our unease that this is not the case and that we are merely custodians of our planet, and not very good custodians at that. We have consistently mismanaged it until now it threatens our very existence.

So what has this to do with poetry? Down the ages, the poet has provided Nature with a voice - a voice that sometimes resonates in the modern world and serves as a warning. By virtue of this, the poet and the ecologist find themselves fighting on the same side. Both may celebrate the glories of Nature while never losing sight of Mankind's place in the world, so there should be more to nature poetry than merely singing its praises. The flowery 'Isn't Nature beautiful?' school has little to do with the implacable force that, whether we like it or not, affects all we do.

As I stated in the opening paragraph, Nature is never far from my writing. Even in my more urban poems, she is in the background, standing just around the corner or slipping down a dark alley; unseen perhaps, but still there. She may be capricious and she can be cruel; that is her way, but she is always vital.

In answer to his critics, the poet Ted Hughes once said that his poems were less about violence and more about vitality - the vitality of survival and a celebration of life's assertion, even in death.

To sum up, nature poetry is as relevant to the twenty-first century as as it has ever been - perhaps even more so as we lose sight of our once close relationship with the blind forces that surround us. Good nature poetry should never lose sight of this relationship.