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Category Archives: YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (Sonnet 18) YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

SUMMERS DAY WILL

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.
William Shakespeare

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU 

WHAT’S YOURS?

Before Summer Rain by Rainer Maria Rilke – Famous poets

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Rainer Maria Rilke

1875–1926 

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 ?

On May Morning by John Milton – Famous poet

 

Life of John Milton (1608-1674)

 

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.

flower-1

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

Thundermage

I’m a wizard, I’m a warlock,
I’m a wonder of the age.
I’m a sorcerer, magician,
prestidigitator, mage.

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.

–Kenn Nesbitt

Early Spring by William Wordsworth -YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

flowers
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:–
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS ?

A Morning Stroll (after the tragedy)

The Spring Equinox -Famous Poets

SPRING

Now is the pause between asleep and awake:
Two seasons take
A colour and quality each from each as yet.
The new stage-set
Spandril, column and fan of spring is raised against the
winter backdrop
Murrey and soft;
Now aloft
The sun swings on the equinoctial line.
Few flowers yet shine:
The hellebore hangs a clear green bell and opulent leaves
above dark mould;
The light is cold
In arum leaves, and a primrose flickers
Here and there; the first cool bird-song flickers in the thicket.
Clouds arc pale as the pollen from sallows;
March fallows are white with lime like frost.This is the pause between asleep and awake:
The pause of contemplation and of peice,
Before the earth must teem and the heart ache.
This is the child’s pause, before it sees
That the choice of one way has denied the other ;
Must choose the either, or both, of to care and not to care;
Before the light or darkness shall discover
Irreparable loss; before it must take
Blame for the creature caught in the necessary snare:
Receiving a profit, before it holds a snare.
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM
SENT IN BY YOU

Let go and Let God – My Favourite Poem – by Lauretta P Burns

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I am a poet and I love poetry. My favorite poem that I did not write is:

Let Go & Let God
By: Lauretta P. Burns

As children bring their broken toys with tears for us to mend,
I bought my broken dreams to God,
because He was my friend.
But then, instead of leaving Him at peace to work alone,
I hung around, and tried to help
with ways that were my own.
At last I snatched them back and cried,
“How can you be so slow?”
“My child, “He said, ” what could I do? You never did let go.”

Scary Mary and Johnny By Malcolm Bradshaw

night-of-fright – Promote Yourself

Clowns Six Flags Great America

Monsters, stalking through the night,
Halloween is the Night of Fright.
Fear is what this night brings,
Along with many other things.

Are you sure you are prepared?
Tonight is not for the easily scared.
Creatures from hell roam on this night,
For tonight is the Night of Fright.

Trick or treat you say,
You should not have waited until the end of the day.
Tonight you will lose your tricks and treats,
For the monsters need to eat.

You better not take this night lightly,
Or else you will truly learn what fright means.

In ancient times people feared this night,
The night they greeted with fright.
Why they were so scared you will soon see,
On this “All Hollows Eve.”

© Stormstar1 

The Hag – YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

WWWWWWWWWWWWW

The Hag is astride,
    This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
    Through thick, and through thin,
    Now out, and then in,

 Thorn or a Burr
    She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
    Through Brakes and through Bryars,
    O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

    No Beast, for his food,
    Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
    While mischiefs, by these,
    On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

    The storme will arise,
    And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
    The ghost from the Tomb
    Affrighted shall come,

A Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

    

Robert Herrick (1648)

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS

Goose Fair Today

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It’s October,
It must be Goose Fair!
Around more than 700 years.

This year, starts today, ends on Sunday,
An extra day!
Funfair rides never seen before
Thrill ride favourites
The Enterprise, the Observation Wheel, closed gondolas,
Helter Skelter, carousel rides, Waltzers, Ferris wheel,
The Roller.
Enjoy stalls, treats, burgers, mushy peas, even chips.
Fun for everyone
A big loud festival

Anonymous

Battle Of Britain – Poem by Colin Ian Jeffery

 spit

‘Never before in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so
many to so few.’
Winston Churchill 1940

The siren scrambles the spitfire squadron
Young pilots mostly in their teens
Rush to clamber into cockpits
Engines roar, and planes race down the runway
Rising skyward in battle formation.

Fear grips and some pilots want to vomit
Flying upwards they seek advantage of height
Above the slow droning German bombers
Targeting England’s cities and ports
Guarded by darting M109 Messerschmitt fighters.

‘ Here we go, ‘ radios an Aussie squadron leader
‘ Let’s give the blighters hell.’
And out of the sun with cannons roaring
Spitfires attack like deadly hawks
Twisting and turning as the savage dogfight ensues.

Sergeant-pilot Peter Duncan trapped
Tries frantically to free his jammed cockpit cover
But flames engulf him – – melting hands and face
The spitfire spirals to the ground
Exploding in a fireball ending the sergeant’s suffering.

It seems like yesterday By Gillian Sims

Yet another poem

Fire and Ice

FIREEEEEEEEEEE
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

BY ROBERT FROST

Sent in by you. What’s your favourite poem?

The wall By William Walker

The Mine -YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

tin

A mine spread out its vast machinery.

Here engines with their huts and smoky stacks,

Cranks, wheels, and rods, boilers and hissing steam,

Pressed up the water from the depths below.

Here fire-whims ran till almost out of breath,

And chains cried sharply, strained with fiery force.

Here blacksmiths hammered by the sooty forge,

And there a crusher crashed the copper ore.

Here girls were cobbing under roofs of straw,

And there were giggers at the oaken hutch.

Here a man-engine glided up and down,

A blessing and a boon to mining men:

And near the spot, where many years before,

Turned round and round the rude old water wheel,

A huge fire-stamps was working evermore,

And slimy boys were swarming at the trunks.

The noisy lander by the trap-door bawled

With pincers in his hand; and troops of maids

With heavy hammers brake the mineral stones.

The cart-man cried, and shook his broken whip;

And on the steps of the account-house stood

The active agent, with his eye on all.

Below were caverns grim with greedy gloom,

And levels drunk with darkness; chambers huge

Where Fear sat silent, and the mineral-sprite

For ever chanted his bewitching song;

Shafts deep and dreadful, looking darkest things

And seeming almost running down to doom;

Rock under foot, rock standing on each side;

Rock cold and gloomy, frowning overhead;

Before; behind, at every angle, rock.

Here blazed a vein of precious copper ore,

Where lean men laboured with a zeal for fame,

With face and hands and vesture black as night,

And down their sides the perspiration ran

In steaming eddies, sickening to behold.

But they complained not, digging day and night,

And morn and eve, with lays upon their lips.

Here yawned a tin-cell like a cliff of crags,

Here Danger lurked among the groaning rocks,

And oftimes moaned in darkness.  All the air

Was black with sulphur and burning up the blood.

A nameless mystery seemed to fill the void,

And wings all pitchy flapped among the flints,

And eyes that saw not sparkled min the spars.

Yet here men worked, on stages hung in ropes,

With drills and hammers blasting the rude earth,

Which fell with such a crash that he who heard

Cried, “Jesu, save the miner!”  Here were the ends

Cut through hard marble by the miners’ skill,

And winzes, stopes and rizes: pitches here,

Where worked the heroic, princely tributer,

This month for nothing, next for fifty pounds.

Here lodes ran wide, and there so very small

That scarce a pick-point could be pressed between;

Here making walls as smooth as polished steel,

And there as craggy as a rended hill.

And out of sparry vagues the water oozed,

Staining the rock with mineral, so that oft

It led the labourer to a house of gems.

Across the mine a hollow cross-course ran

From north to south, an omen of much good;

And tin lay heaped on stulls and level-plots;

And in each nook a tallow taper flared,

Where pale men wasted with exhaustion huge.

Here holes exploded, and there mallets rang,

And rocks fell crashing, lifting the stiff hair

From time-worn brows, and noisy buckets roared

In echoing shafts; and through this gulf of gloom

A hollow murmur rushed for evermore.

by John Harris

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOUR’S?

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