Bonfire, you’re a merry fellow
With your flames of red and yellow,
And your cheery cracks and pops-
You gobble up the old bean-props,
The pea-sticks, withered plants, and all
The leaves blown down beside the wall.
Your never-ending spires of smoke
(The colour of a pixy’s cloak)
Go mounting to the starry sky,
And when the wind comes bustling by
Oh, what a merry game you play,
And how you pop and roar away!
Your heart is red, your smoke is thick,
On, pile on leaves and branches quick!
Let’s dance around and shout and sing,
Oh, Bonfire, you’re a LOVELY thing!
From the Enid Blyton Poetry book, 1934.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS
Category Archives: YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
Some of the best poems of all time are dark, eerie, haunting, scary poems―the perfect poems for Halloween! Here you will find the great medieval ballad about madness, “Tom O’Bedlam,” Alfred Noyes’s bleakly romantic ghost story “The Highwayman,” Ernest Dowson’s haunting “A Last Word,” Walter De La Mare’s enigmatic “The Listeners,” and a terrifying poem about the specter of hell terrorizing Christian children, Robert Frost’s magnificent “Directive.” I chose the first two poems to complement the ghoulish picture above. (In fact, I wrote the first poem specifically to go with the picture.) The poems that follow include some of the very best dark, haunting poems in the English language, by masters of horror and the supernatural like William Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, John Keats and Edward Arlington Robinson.
by Michael R. Burch
Tell us what you lack …
the ability to love,
your flesh so slack?
Will we frighten you,
equally pale & unsound …
when we also haunt
the unhallowed ground?
The Skeleton’s Defense of Carnality
by Jack Foley
Truly I have lost weight, I have lost weight,
grown lean in love’s defense,
in love’s defense grown grave.
It was concupiscence that brought me to the state:
all bone and a bit of skin
to keep the bone within.
Flesh is no heavy burden for one possessed of little
and accustomed to its loss.
I lean to love, which leaves me lean, till lean turn into lack.
A wanton bone, I sing my song
and travel where the bone is blown
and extricate true love from lust
as any man of wisdom must.
Then wherefore should I rage
against this pilgrimage
from gravel unto gravel?
Circuitous I travel
from love to lack / and lack to lack,
from lean to lack
A Last Word
by Ernest Dowson
Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;
Despair and death; deep darkness o’er the land,
Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.
Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where’s rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.
Ulalume [an excerpt]
by Edgar Allan Poe
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir …
by Michael R. Burch
White in the shadows
I see your face,
unbidden. Go, tell
Love it is commonplace;
tell Regret it is not so rare.
Our love is not here
though you smile,
full of sedulous grace.
Lost in darkness, I fear
the past is our resting place.
by Edward Arlington Robinson
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen, she will call.
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal—
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—
In eastern skies.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this—
To tell you this.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall,
Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—
by Agnes Wathall
No ancient mariner I,
Hawker of public crosses,
Snaring the passersby
With my necklace of albatrosses.
I blink no glittering eye
Between tufts of gray sea mosses
Nor in the high road ply
My trade of guilts and glosses.
But a dark and inward sky
Tracks the flotsam of my losses.
No more becalmed to lie,
The skeleton ship tosses.
by Walter De La Mare
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
‘Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I
by William Shakespeare
Three witches, casting a spell …
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights hast thirty one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM WHAT’S YOUR’S
WHY NOT SEND YOUR POETRY IN AND CELEBRATE HALLOWEEN
Mr. Macklin takes his knife And carves the yellow pumpkin face: Three holes bring eyes and nose to life, The mouth has thirteen teeth in place. Then Mr. Macklin just for fun Transfers the corn-cob pipe from his Wry mouth to Jack’s, and everyone Dies laughing! O what fun it is Till Mr. Macklin draws the shade And lights the candle in Jack’s skull. Then all the inside dark is made As spooky and as horrorful As Halloween, and creepy crawl The shadows on the tool-house floor, With Jack’s face dancing on the wall. O Mr. Macklin! where’s the door? David McCord YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT'S YOUR'S
Some twelve months ago,
An hundred or so,
The Pope went to visit the devil;
And as, you will find,
Old Nick, to a friend,
Can behave himself wondrous civil.
Quoth the De’il to the Seer,
What the De’il brought you her
It was surely some whimsical maggot:
Come, draw to the fire;
Nay, prithee, sit nigher:
Heree, sirrah! lay on t’other faggot.
You’re welcome to Hell;
I hope friends are well,
At Pareis, Madrid, and at Rome;
And ,now you elope,
I suppose, my dear Pope,
The conclave will hang out the broom.
Then his Holiness cry’d,
All jesting aside,
“Give the Pope and the Devil their dues;”
For, believe me, Old Dad,
I’ll make thy heart glad,
For, by Jove, I do bring thee rare news.
There’s a plot to beguile
An obstinate isle;
Great Britain, that heretic nation,
Who so shyly behav’d,
In the hopes of being sav’d
By the help of a d . . d Reformation.
We’ll never have done,
If we burn one by one,
Tis’ such a d . . d numerous race!
For no sooner one’s dead,
Like the fam’d Hydra’s head,
Than a dozen spring up in his place.
But, believe me, Old Nick,
We’ll play them a trick,
The like was ne’er hatched in France;
For this day before dinner,
As sure’s I’m a sinner,
We’ll burn all the rascals at onece.
When the king with his son
To the parliament’s gone,
To consult about old musty papers,
We’ll give them a greeting,
Shall break up their meeting,
And try who can cut the best capers.
There’s powder enough,
And combustible stuff,
Inf fifty and odd trusty barrels,
Which will blow all together,
The Devil cares whither,
And decide at one blow all our quarrels.
But this was scarce said,
When in popp’d the head
Of an old Jesuitical Wight,
Who cry’d You’re mistaken,
They’ve all saav’d their bacon,
And Jemmy still stinks with the fright.
Then Satan was struck,
And said ’tis bad luck,
But you for your news shall be thanked:
So he call’d to the door
Seven devils or more,
And they toss’d the poor dog in a blanket.
Watts, Isaac, Horae lyricae. Poems, By I. London, 1706
We’d never argue, we’d never fight.
I’d take it all, the weird and strange.
I’d give my life to ease her pain.
I cannot read her different mind.
Another like her, you’d never find.
I think she’s amazing, she’ll never find out.
She’s one in a trillion, without a doubt.
She thinks she is normal, just boring and plain.
There’s no one else like her, no one near the same.
If her mind was a book, I’d read it 10 times.
If her voice was a song, I’d replay till I die.
If her life was a movie, I’d laugh, love and cry.
If she’d ever have me, I’d make her be mine.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
paint, cream, and water, fire and dusty oil. You heard the water dreaming in its large kneed pipes, up from the weir. And the cordwood our fathers cut for the furnace stood in walls like the sleeper-stacks of a continental railway. The cream arrived in lorried tides; its procession crossed a platform of workers' stagecraft: Come here Friday-Legs! Or I'll feel your hernia-- Overalled in milk's colour, men moved the heart of milk, separated into thousands, along a roller track--Trucks? That one of mine, son, it pulls like a sixteen-year-old-- to the tester who broached the can lids, causing fat tears, who tasted, dipped and did his thin stoppered chemistry on our labour, as the empties chattered downstage and fumed. Under the high roof, black-crusted and stainless steels were walled apart: black romped with leather belts but paddlewheels sailed the silvery vats where muscles of the one deep cream were exercised to a bullion to be blocked in paper. And between waves of delivery the men trod on water, hosing the rainbows of a shift. It was damp April even at Christmas round every margin of the factory. Also it opened the mouth to see tackles on glibbed gravel, and the mossed char louvres of the ice-plant's timber tower streaming with heavy rain all day, above the droughty paddocks of the totem cows round whom our lives were dancing. Written by: Les Murray
Je pense que j’ai finalement traduit de l’anglais vers le français parfaitement!
très dur, mais super boulot moi
Un poème pour envoyer à quelqu’un que vous aimez
C’est ce que j’appelle Les Amants Perdu Poème…..
Je n’ai pas honte de dire ou admettre que c’est vrai.
Je suis un toxicomane mais d’une manière spéciale,
Vous voyez, mon cœur veut juste vous.
I’am un toxicomane à cet amour que je ressens,
depuis le jour où j’ai posé les yeux sur tu que je connaissais.
chaque jour qui se lève mon cœur bat,
et il se demande ce qu’il faut faire.
Votre absence rend mon coeur que vous voulez tu,
et mon corps aspire à votre contact.
L’énergie qui coule dans mes veines,
me donne envie de vous tellement.
Si seulement je pouvais vous tenir,
Et vous avoir à côté de moi.
Peut-être que cette douleur que je ressens à l’intérieur,
allait enfin me libérer libre.
Je t’aime au-delà de tout,
et au-delà des étoiles que je ne peux pas voir.
J’espère juste que tu ressens la même
quand vous dites que vous m’aimez.
Tout ce que je voulais, c’était d’être dans votre cœur demain, hier et aujourd’hui.
et pour nous d’être ensemble et de ne jamais être loin.
J’espérais qu’un jour vous vous rendrez compte,
mon amour pour toi est vrai.
comment vous êtes si parfait à mes yeux.
et comment mon amour pour toi juste grandi.
Il s’agit d’un poème Je voudrais pouvoir vous envoyer.
mais je n’ai jamais reçu votre lettre et je n’avais pas de place pour l’envoyer trop.
translated into English;
I think I finally translated from English to French perfectly!
very hard, but great job me
A poem to send to someone you love
This is what I call The Lost Lovers Poem …..
I’m not ashamed to say or admit that it’s true.
I’m an addict, but in a special way,
You see, my heart just wants you.
I’am an addict to this love that I feel,
since the day I laid eyes on you I knew.
each waking day my heart beats,
and wondered what to do.
Your absence makes my heart want you,
and my body craves your touch.
The energy flowing through my veins,
makes me want you so much.
If only I could hold you,
And have you beside me.
Maybe this pain I feel inside,
would finally release me free.
I love you beyond all
and beyond the stars I can not see.
I just hope you feel the same
when you say you love me.
All I wanted was to be in your heart tomorrow, yesterday and today.
and for us to be together and never be far away.
I hoped that one day you will realize,
My love for you is true.
how you are so perfect in my eyes.
and how my love for you just grew.
This is a poem I wish I could send you.
but I never received your letter and I had no place to send it too.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOUR’S?
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas’d with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
But winter and rough weather.
Poem, origin unknown, found in handwritten notes of the late Frank Willmott.Buxom barges drifting,
Outward with the tide,
Outward, onwards, seawrad,
Where buoys and beacons guide.Bound with Grain for Yarmouth,
Ghistong down the Swin,
Hasting, winding, storming,
From Lowerstoft to Kings Lynn.Every port and haven
From Tyne to Cawsand Bay,
Still sees the barges trading
With fresh cargoes every day.Laden deep with sugar,
with barley, sand or coke,
Spritties keep on sailin,
They were built of English oak.But their day is passing,
Fewer with each tide,
Grace old London’s river,
Long may their rare charm abide
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
SENT IN BY YOU
DOCKERY AND SON
“Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn’t he?” said the Dean. “His son’s here now.”
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. “And do
You keep in touch with—” Or remember how
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
We used to stand before that desk, to give
“Our version” of “these incidents last night”?
I try the door of where I used to live:
Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
Canal and clouds and college subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
Anyone up today must have been born
In ‘43, when I was twenty-one
If he was younger, did he get this son
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn
High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
How much…How little…Yawning, I suppose
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
The platform to its end to see the ranged
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong
Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
Only a numbness registered the shock
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of…No, that’s not the difference: rather, how
Convinced he was he should be added to!
Why did he think adding meant increase?
To me it was dilution. Where do these
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
We think truest, or most want to do:
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They’re more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we’ve got.
And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son’s harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.
HOME IS SO SAD
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft
And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
That was a pretty one, I heard you call
From the unsatisfactory hall
To the unsatisfactory room where I
Played record after record, idly,
Wasting my time at home, that you
Looked so much forward to.
Oliver’s Riverside Blues, it was. And now
I shall, I suppose, always remember how
The flock of notes those antique negroes blew
Out of Chicago air into
A huge remembering pre-electric horn
The year after I was born
Three decades later made this sudden bridge
From your unsatisfactory age
To my unsatisfactory prime.
Truly, though our element is time,
We are not suited to the long perspectives
Open at each instant of our lives.
They link us to our losses: worse,
They show us what we have as it once was,
Blindingly undiminished, just as though
By acting differently, we could have kept it so.
Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;
And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day;
And the countryside not caring:
The place-names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat’s restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;
Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word—the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.
ONE OF MY FAVOURITE POETS
What are the world’s most popular poems?
Between May 15th 2007, and March 21st, 2008, Classic Poetry Aloud had some half a million downloads from across the globe. This shows the most downloaded poems, and so the world’s most popular poems, to be:
- She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron
- Ode to Autumn by John Keats
- If by Rudyard Kipling
- Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? by William Shakespeare
- Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
- How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
- O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman
- Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley
- Death by John Donne
- Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU
Rainer Maria Rilke
Rainer Maria Rilke was a Bohemian–Austrian poet and art critic. He is considered one of the most significant poets in the German language.. Bohemian-Austrian poetRilke was the only child of a German-speaking family in Prague, then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. His father was a retired officer in the Austrian army who worked as a railroad official; his mother, a socially ambitious and possessive woman. At age eleven Rilke began his formal schooling at a military boarding academy, and in 1891, less than a year after transferring to a secondary military school, he was discharged due to health problems, from which he would suffer throughout his life. He immediately returned to Prague, to find that his parents had divorced in his absence. Shortly thereafter he began receiving private instruction toward passing the entrance exams for Prague’s Charles-Ferdinand University. In 1894 his first book of verse,Leben und Lieder: Bilder und Tagebuchblatter, was published.
Before Summer Rain something-you don't know what-has disappeared; you feel it creeping closer to the window in total silence. From the nearby wood you hear the urgent whistling of a plover reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome: so much solitude and passion come from that one voice whose fierce request the downpour will grant. The walls with their ancient portraits glide away from us cautiously as though they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying. And reflected on the faded tapestries now: the chill uncertain sunlight of those long childhood hours when you were so afraid by: Rainer Maria Rilke YOUR FAVOURITE POEM sent in by you, what's yours ?
John Milton was born on December 9, 1608, in London, as the second child of John and Sara (neé Jeffrey). The family lived on Bread Street in Cheapside, near St. Paul’s Cathedral. John Milton Sr. worked as a scrivener, a legal secretary whose duties included preparation and notarization of documents , as well as real estate transactions and moneylending. Milton’s father was also a composer of church music, and Milton himself experienced a lifelong delight in music. The family’s financial prosperity afforded Milton to be taught classical languages, first by private tutors at home, followed by entrance to St. Paul’s School at age twelve, in 1620.
In 1625, Milton was admitted to Christ’s College, Cambridge. While Milton was a hardworking student, he was also argumentative to the extent that only a year later, in 1626, he got suspended after a dispute with his tutor, William Chappell.
On May Morning
Now the bright morning Star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
On May Morning
by John Milton
I’m a wizard, I’m a warlock,
I’m a wonder of the age.
I’m a sorcerer, magician,
I can change into a chicken,
or perhaps a purple pig.
I can wave my wand and, presto,
I’m a waffle with a wig.
With the power in my pinky
I can burst like a balloon
or transform into a tiger
with the head of a baboon.
If I wiggle on my earlobe
or I knock upon my knee
I become a dancing doughnut
or a turtle in a tree.
Just a simple incantation
and I deftly disappear,
which I never should have done
because I’ve been this way all year.
And despite my mighty magic
I’m impossible to see,
for I never learned the spells I need
to turn back into me.
To her fair works did Nature link
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The birds around me hopped and played,
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
If this belief from heaven be sent,