On the subject of rhythms, I wonder what people make of the rhythms in this poem.

MAY'S SONG

I have no home, neither hat nor hollow.
I have feet bare in the moist dust.
My hair tangles at my neck.
I am way worn, travel as I must.
At the cross roads comes a chance meeting,
Asking not for hope, but only a moment’s clasp.
I am cynical of the old greeting
Making no try for love, under my self-mask.

But if I seem a sore tried waif,
Let me introduce my friend,
in a cloak of yellow weeds
with ice at his nose end.
His house is a brown hat
Dragged over one grazed ear,
Teeth single, and the rough matt
Of his beard wet with his swamp-beer.

Was it once my way to be aloof and romantic?
I have shed that, since I am not material
For the princess role, but only the natural
The corn child, born for a spring burial.

I am open armed for my companion, the dirty summer.
The joker on trial, the green clown, fawns to the chief mummer.

Not greedy at all Freda - I think you are brave to use poetry review - people are a lot harsher with poetry on here, it seems.

This poem doesn't speak to me as much as your Liverpool sidings poem. I know that isn't important to you because you seem able to divorce meaning and reader reaction from your critique. It affects the way I react to a poem though.

This poem is obviously a lot less structured than your last. That wouldn't bother me so much if I could lose myself in the poem - but I can't - it's just not doing it for me. I can't put it into words why - it has rhyme - it just doesn't seem to flow. Flow means a lot to me - I think it is that instinctive thing we talked about in your last poem.

How do we achieve flow? By counting syllables? By beats? By well balanced word stresses? Alliteration? I think sometimes it's just a combination of all these things and it's hard to put your finger on what makes something really poetic.