William Holt
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Bio:
I have been making poems for 65 years. The earliest one I have was written down by my mother when I recited it at the age of three. I have never been especially prolific; all the poems I care to allow people to see could fit in one medium size book.
Anything may bring about a poem--a sudden flash of memory, a chance remark, and animal crossing my line of sight, a marriage announcement in a newspaper, a feeling of frustration. I try to let the subject matter determine the form, which may be that of a sonnet, a villanelle, a clerihew, a double dactyl, a triolet, or a composition in free verse.
For many years I taught college and university English. I'm now retired and enjoying it greatly. My son, a far more prolific and often published poet himself, said that retirement has improved my output. But I doubt that it will ever increase to more than about twenty poems a year.
Many of my poems are collected in the anthology A Stony Path, available on the Authonomy web site, along with my paranormal crime novel, Faust's Butterfly.
Let us sing more of weevils.
They are not among the greatest evils.
Should you a weevil meet
It will not mind whether you greet
It with enthusiasm or with suspicion;
Irritability is not the weevil‘s characteristic condition.
But a weevil is not much of a pet:
Ask any vet.
It does not need or desire your care.
Because it has none, you need not comb its hair.
It will not give affection
Nor will it give protection,
And though it is unlikely to do anything to cause anyone to sue you,
It also does not believe that any of its simple services are due you.
Weevils are at their best in the wild,
And with a few notable exceptions, the damage they do is mild.
(The cotton boll weevil raised a fuss quite historical
But this case should not cause condemnation categorical.)
If you ignore weevils they will ignore you too,
And you can be ignored by them and not be feeling blue.
For many years I taught college and university English. I'm now retired and enjoying it greatly. My son, a far more prolific and often published poet himself, said that retirement has improved my output. But I doubt that it will ever increase to more than about twenty poems a year.
Many of my poems are collected in the anthology A Stony Path, available on the Authonomy web site, along with my paranormal crime novel, Faust's Butterfly.
A Little Ogden Nashery on the Weevil Race
Let us sing more of weevils.
They are not among the greatest evils.
Should you a weevil meet
It will not mind whether you greet
It with enthusiasm or with suspicion;
Irritability is not the weevil‘s characteristic condition.
But a weevil is not much of a pet:
Ask any vet.
It does not need or desire your care.
Because it has none, you need not comb its hair.
It will not give affection
Nor will it give protection,
And though it is unlikely to do anything to cause anyone to sue you,
It also does not believe that any of its simple services are due you.
Weevils are at their best in the wild,
And with a few notable exceptions, the damage they do is mild.
(The cotton boll weevil raised a fuss quite historical
But this case should not cause condemnation categorical.)
If you ignore weevils they will ignore you too,
And you can be ignored by them and not be feeling blue.
Pearl Bearer to Predator
Down where the waves do not define the sea,
I lie stone-still, feeding on things that come
By subtle currents, not by choice, to me,
Full of your poisons, yet I don’t succumb
To things your busy industries pour out.
I take them, and I hold them, growing more
Dangerous as time passes, and a stout
Dose waits for snails or worms or sea-stars, or
You--if you think this meat will sate your greed.
Keep off! or treat me wisely: use my shell
For fertilizer or for chicken feed
Or for an ashtray, but don't taste this fell
Envenomed flesh. I'm helpless in my bed, But when you kill me, take this pearl instead.
