The King of Goth

The Sussex lad, to title and land born,
an alumni, now he stands proudly tall.
In Oxford students pass at future’s dawn,
for some the inspiration was his call.

Provocative, a mighty pen his sword,
expelled for godless view from hallowed hall.
The Baronet poet, friend to a Lord,
the Gothic king’s voice did incite them all.

His Mary worshipped at her husband‘s feet,
she held his heart tight from death’s final flame.
Did they engage in black acts, pagan mete?
A dark and often troubled soul laid claim.

Into the storm set sail, the end foretold,
He died before his talent could unfold.



© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

My Passion

There is a place I hide in pain
Refuge for tears, a place to weep.
Where words I read to sooth again
In vintage odes my mind I steep.

Oh Shelley poet loved so dear
With you I find a gentle peace
Oft joined by blood and saline tear
'Til once again my rages cease.

The words that show a man of charm
Comfort he brings in my repine
The spirit makes his words so warm
Again my heart belongs to thine.

The fears of darkness are now gone
As words in blood pulse in my breast
And when I die it's with you alone
I will lie and take final rest.

A modern poet dreams in moon shine
When soul's reach to an unholy low
These are thoughts that will remain mine
And when my dear I love you so.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

On Italian Shores

In clouds of topaz see the native girl
She walks barefoot over the amber sands.
Soft tendrils of auburn hair twist and curl
A single crimson rose silent in her hands.

Each night she walks, along the chilling shore
With fleeting glances across the ocean
At seas rhythm with unforgiving lore
The black waters mesmerise with motion

Stargazed she holds loves tarot runic card
Destiny in journeys to distant place
When she finds the soul of sea faring bard
In dreams she has often seen his face.

A failure of reality to break a heart
When the worlds combine in romantic art.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Curriculum Vitae

A student of classics that is me
Never intended to write the words
That inspire me to draw and paint
A poet, no not me.

There once was a writer called Jem
The best of her erotica made one ‘ahem’
Much to her shame
She has quit that game
OK she still writes some of them.

A student of classics that is me
Never intended to write the words
That inspire me to draw and paint
A poet, no not me.

Nonsense verse that makes sense.
A love of Lear comes forth.
Dribbles and drabbles so intense
Like winds that bite from the north
Botherswipes that get in the way,
Grumblewits that say grow up now,
An inner child is at her play,
To keep her alive is my vow.

A student of classics that is me
Never intended to write the words
That inspire me to draw and paint
A poet, no not me.

The rule of play now is a beat,
To give poems rhythm and flow,
The meter gives a verse some feet,
And words now glow.

A student of classics that is me
Never intended to write the words
That inspire me to draw and paint
A poet, no not me.

The sonnet, long has been my muse in art
My dearest Shelley now lies in my heart
As paint and I unite with words of love
Like minds in time, a creative team above.

He died before his time in foreign sea,
He comes alive in paint and board with me.
'Though he was born two hundred years ago
In all his work I see my world on show

I paint and try to think as Shelley thought
The rebel of a Lord in Scouser's art
I use my talent and the skills I'm taught
But mostly I just paint a poet's heart

I want to try to paint away my rage
He used a pen to put his on the page.

A student of classics that is me
Never intended to write the words
That inspire me to draw and paint
A poet, no not me.

Words can be art, an image paint,
A poem can set feelings free,
Emotions with colour acquaint
A poet of sorts I will be.

Creation of art on paper,
Arts form a union inside me,
It really is quite a caper
A poet of sorts I will be

I am learning meter and rhyme
As part of classic poetry,
Flowing like paint, I hope, in time
A poet of sorts I will be.

A student of classics that is me
Never intended to write the words
That inspire me to draw and paint
A poet, no not me.

P oetry and art combine
A midst my blood, they entwine.
I magination and creativity
N eeds that make me who I am
T alented, probably not,
I am not conceited that way.
N ow and then inspired
G uess that is nearer the truth.

P eripatetic, with no line limit,
O verview of my poetic
E xperience you want,
T his is it … thus far.

A student of classics that is me
Never intended to write the words
That inspire me to draw and paint
A poet, no not me.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

July 8th

For July 8th I have just one wish
To spend an hour with Percy Bysshe
To hear him speak and share a while
Maybe even see my hero smile.

His works of beauty, I have them all
Words from a romantic that often call.
Magic images that release my mind
So much inspiration for a painter to find.

Verses of love that quench the heart
With sweetness of a man and his art.
For July 8th I have just one wish
To spend an hour with Percy Bysshe

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Island Lady

A lady pen, wrote of love in meter,
from on the Grecian isle and ancient time.
For womankind, was honey ever sweeter?
She was not condemned, when she made her rhyme

A lyrist, her words were made for singing,
Plato’s muse she inspires from long ago.
Her name now echoes as a bell ringing
A way of loving she has set aglow.

From that isle, she refined her own beat,
and thus her name remains as poem form.
Given pride too, as we measure the feet,
a genre of art bring critical storm.

No shame now, we will show our love and pride
in the life culture, we choose to reside.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.