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I would like to thank you by Malcolm Bradshaw

Publish in the Nottingham Post Letters

15-9-12

 

I would like to thank all the poets who have sent in their work to The Nottingham Post. It saddens me to know that the talents you all possess are no longer being published daily. It appears that not enough poems are being received to enable the paper to publish during the week. I can’t believe with respect to The Nottingham Post that our poets are not sending in their poems. It would be interesting to inform The Nottingham Post of your views, after all the paper I am sure will take into consideration all the views on this subject. Poets of Nottinghamshire do not let the Letters page take over which was once shared by your talents, think of all the readers who buy the paper just to read your work, do not deprive those who look forward to seeing your work in all its glory.

UPDATE ON THE NOTTINGHAM POST 7.9.12

 

Re Poems

The Nottingham Post has been in touch, about the poetry not being published Monday to Friday. Their explanation was that only regular poets were sending in their work and no-one else, this meant that they have not enough poems to publish during the week. I then suggested that the paper put a notice to this effect and to invite all poets within the area of the paper to send in their work or comment on their statement.

It then transpires the main reason is that the Letters page takes priority over the poems I was told that they were not intending to put poems in the paper Monday to Friday

The member of staff I spoke to said he would consult his editor about putting more poems in the paper on Saturday’s.

As you can see for yourselves, there is a contradiction on both subjects.

What I would like to see first is constructive comments on both issues.

I cant believe the poets are not sending poems in to the Nottingham Post, because there so much hidden talent out there, and I am sure readers of the Post have missed the beautiful poems submitted by all poets.

Are we to stand by and allow this to happen? I know poetry is not everyones cup of tea.

Surely, it is every readers right to show concern on issues such as this. Remember we all have the right to voice our opinions as to what we like or dislike , we contribute towards the paper by purchasing it every week, although the price has been increased.

Malcolm G Bradshaw

8-9-12

I will keep you informed of more developments when I receive them from

The Nottingham Post.

Happen – Promote Yourself

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If the world stood still for a day,

do you think any destruction could happen?

or do you think we’ll all freeze, still, never moving forward

If peace was a reached goal for the world,

is it possible that we could keep it that way?

or would we search for a battle

to cause pain, hurt and death that has become such second nature to us now

If time traveling was the way to the future,

what would happen to the past and the present?

would curiosity kick in and compel us to go back and fix what could be fixed, save what could be saved and create a future that we have always visioned as a nation

The past is over that’s why it should be left there,

to settle in its former glory, to collect the dust of times that go by

you have to focus on today because all we really know and what we can be sure of is what is happening right now around us

so live each day to the fullest

breathe as if it’s your last breath

and love with an open heart

 

By: me (Bea Militante)

my blog is beaanonymous652.wordpress.com

I live in england for school, but im originally from the philippines, im mixed raced and im currently in year 13 at secondary school. I really want to have my own poetry book so I decided to create my blog purely so i could see how people react to my poems. They are all deeply personal and based on my life, mainly my childhood so I would love it if you could publish it on your blog for me, you follow me actually and favourited this one.

My Freedom – Promote Yourself

Hi to all…I would like to congratulate the poet tree creations for this wonderful service. Great going Team. The poem below is written in *Ghazal with featured in my blog http://viruvasan.wordpress.com/ .  I hope you guys find it worth publishing here.

My Freedom

 

I always  wanted to  fly high  with  my  fearless freedom,

Achieve the impossible and justifying the desirous freedom.

 

But, I have been caged by  several bars  of  constraints

Which is holding and obliterating my helpless freedom.

 

I want to be unique; Different;Stand out from the crowd

Which can be feasible, Only by my ambitious freedom.

 

Financial pressure, One of the bars of the cage, Diverts me

To an ordinary path and closes my path of  congruous freedom.

 

I can physically roam and wander in this wide world,

But, Only by deserting my choice of hapless freedom.

 

-Sudharsan Srinivasan

 

*A Ghazal is a poem that is made up like an odd numbered chain of couplets, where each couplet is an independent poem. It should be natural to put a comma at the end of the first line. The Ghazal has a refrain of one to three words that repeat, and an inline rhyme that preceedes the refrain. Lines 1 and 2, then every second line, has this refrain and inline rhyme, and the last couplet should refer to the authors pen-name… The rhyming scheme is AA bA cA dA eA etc.

Anne Killigrew 1660–1685-FAMOUS FEMALE POET

Anne Killigrew
Anne Killigrew 1660–1685
British poet and painter Anne Killigrew was born in London in 1660. Her father was a clergyman with a position at Westminster Abbey, and she was a maid of honor to Mary of Modena, Duchess of York, in the court of Charles II. Exposed from an early age to life at court, she was also taken to the theater, and her uncles even wrote plays. Killigrew was the subject of an ode by the poet John Dryden. Anne Killigrew was the daughter of Henry Killigrew and was born in London in 1660. She was characterized by one of her admireres as “a Grace for beauty and a Muse for wit.” Her father was one of the prebendaries of Westminster some time before the restoration of Charles II.Anne showed indications of genius very early and her father made sure to carefully cultivate it. She became celebrated in the arts of poetry and painting. She painted a portrait of the Duke of York, who later became James II, and his duchess, to whom she was a maid of honor. She also painted some historical pictues and some pieces of still life, for her own pleasure.Anne was also known as a poet and was often comapred to Catharine Philips, the “Matchless Orinda”. Not only did she share in her artistic talent, but also in the similarities of their lives.Anne Killigrew was an exemplary woman of virtue and piety. Dryden speaks of her in the highest terms, and wrote a long ode to her memory, from which the following stanza is extracted:

“Now all those charms, that blooming grace,

The well-proportioned shape and beauteous face,

Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes:

In earth the much lamented virgin lies!

Nor was the cruel destiny content

to finish all the murder at a blow,

to snap at once her life and beauty too;

But, like a hardened felon, took a pride

to work more mischievously slow,

and plunder’s first, and then destroyed.

Oh! double sacrilege on things divine,

To rob the relique and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda died:

Heaven by the same disease did both translate,

As equal were their souls, as equal was their fate.”

She died of smallpox in 1685 and was buried in the chapel of the Savoy hospital, on the north side of which is a plain monument of marble and freestone erected to her memory, and fixed in the wall, on which is a Latin inscription.

A Farewel (To Worldly Joys.)-by Anne Killigrew FAMOUS FEMALE POET

 

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Anne Killigrew (1660—1685) was an English poet. Born in London, Killigrew is perhaps best known as the subject of a famous elegy by the poet John Dryden entitled To The Pious Memory of the Accomplish’d Young Lady Mrs. Anne Killigrew (1686). She was however a skilful poet in her own right, and her Poems were published posthumously in 1686. Dryden compared her poetic abilities to the famous Greek poet of antiquity, Sappho. Killigrew died of smallpox aged 25.

 

A Farewel (To Worldly Joys.)

FArewel ye Unsubstantial Joyes,
Ye Gilded Nothings, Gaudy Toyes,
Too long ye have my Soul misled,
Too long with Aiery Diet fed:
But now my Heart ye shall no more
Deceive, as you have heretofore:
For when I hear such Sirens sing,
Like Ithaca’s fore-warned King,
With prudent Resolution I
Will so my Will and Fancy tye,
That stronger to the Mast not he,
Than I to Reason bound will be:
And though your Witchcrafts strike my Ear,
Unhurt, like him, your Charms I’ll hear.

by Anne Killigrew

William Blake – Famous poets


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William Blake was born on the 28th November 1757 in London where he remained for most of his life. He was educated at home by his mother until 1767 when he was sent to Henry Pars Drawing school. At the age of fourteen he became an apprentice to James Basire the engraver and after studying at the Royal Academy School he started to produce water-colours and engravings for magazines. In 1783 he married Catherine Boucher. Some of Blakes earliest poems were written at the age of twelve and his first book of poems was produced in 1783 (Poetical Sketches), and this was later followed by (Songs of Innocence) in 1789, 

MUSIC OF LOVE PAST

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I
Cascades of soothing waters,
Creamy textures of harmony,
Sensuous tonal kisses,
I hear your voice, longingly.

II
Tremulous senses tantalize
Like wisps of willows on my skin.
Your liquid voice moistens stilled lips
And brushes my eardrums;
Your pastoral scent teases the air.
Then your melody reveals a dissonance
That only my dreams can restore.
As sonorous feelings are briefly quieted,
Until I tremble, once again.

III

You leave composed, as I feel fire.
You leave disharmony, unquelled desire.
Your songs have become shadows;
Once calming music, sorrows.

Wendy Shreve

BATTLE FLAG

 

 Tattered-flag

The battle flag snapped and swung up to fly in the wind

Above the post on the hill that even God had forgotten about back then

Rifles swung up and pointed out and down across the clearing

Searing rounds were sent out for the human shearing

A burst returned ripped holes in the flag that flew in the wind

Blood and mud spattered, its fabric so worn and so thin

That flew above boys that day sudden turned into men

It snapped and swung up to fly in the wind

Above the post on the hill that no one, not even God knew about back then. 

 Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All Rights Reserved
THANK YOU FOR LETTING US USE YOUR POEM
kind regards

Emily Dickinson – Your favourite poem

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A thought went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish, – some way back,
I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.

But somewhere in my soul, I know
I’ve met the thing before;
It just reminded me – ‘t was all –
And came my way no more.

– Emily Dickinson

How to Write Well

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1…. Don’t ever present your ideas in the form of a numbered list

2. Never repeat yourself or say things more than once
3. Avoid (whenever possible) the use of parenthetical phrases (unless absolutely necessary)
4. The use of foreign words and expressions is considered a faux pas
5. Avoid cliches like the plague
6. Never adopt a condescending tone with your readers – that means to talk down to them
7. To be avoided at all times is the reverse construction of sentences
8. Eschew obfuscation

Haunted Lives

                                                              Inspired by A Haunted House

                                                                        by Virginia Woolf.

You haunt me, you haunt us. You think we don’t know? Don’t worry about it, dears, we see you also. We see you through those misplaced objects, those doors we closed- that you opened. Ghosts cannot be seen, but they can surely be felt. I feel you joining us for dinner, we feel you walk past us in the halls. We know you’re lost, searching, seeking without answers.

You’re lurking, giving meaning to your memories, you compare us. We know, it is the past for you- that you live vicariously through us.

You’ve loved,
You’ve lost – we see.

Watching us, you lurk again, watching us.

We imagine you talk about those uncountable kisses you’ve planted on each others cheeks, we imagine you love us, as much as you love your yesterdays. We imagine you’re not ready to move on, you want to live through us.

My lover and I? Oh, you’ve seen. The ups, downs, rights and wrongs- you’ve seen, you’ve lived through it all, we know. It tears up my heartstrings to say this,

but,

You’re breaking us.

I love him, you know, but the two of you watching over him and I—those transparent eyes of yours will be the death of us.

Consider this letter a treasured piece of history. Study it, then please leave us be.

Biography of Robert Frost – Famous poets

 

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Born on March 26, 1874, Robert Frost spent his first 40 years as an unknown. He exploded on the scene after returning from England at the beginning of WWI. Winner of four Pulitzer Prizes and a special guest at President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration, Frost became a poetic force and the unofficial “poet laureate” of the United States. He died of complications from prostate surgery on January 29, 1963.

Early Years

Robert Frost was born on March 26, 1874 in San Francisco, California. He spent the first 12 years of his life there, until his father, William Prescott Frost Jr., died of tuberculosis. Following his father’s passing, Frost moved with his mother and sister Jeanie to the town of Lawrence, Massachusetts. They moved in with his grandparents, and Frost attended Lawrence High School, where he met his future love and wife, Elinor White, his co-valedictorian.

After his high school graduation in 1892, Frost attended Dartmouth University for several months, returning home to work a slew of unfulfilling jobs. In 1894, he had his first poem, “My Butterfly: an Elegy,” published in The Independent, a weekly literary journal based in New York City. With this success, Frost proposed to Elinor, who was attending St. Lawrence University. She turned him down because she first wanted to finish school. Frost then decided to leave on a trip to Virginia, and when he returned, he proposed again. By then, Elinor had graduated from college, and she accepted. They married on December 19, 1895, and had their first child, Elliot, in 1896.

Beginning in 1897, Frost attended Harvard University, but had to drop out after two years due to health concerns. He returned to Lawrence to join his wife, who was now pregnant with their second child, Lesley, who suffered from mental illness. In 1900, Frost moved with his wife and children to a farm in New Hampshire—property that Frost’s grandfather had purchased for them—and they attempted to make a life on it for the next 12 years. Though it was a fruitful time for Frost’s writing, it was a difficult period in his personal life.

Elinor gave birth to four more children, Carol (1902); Irma (1903), who later developed mental illness; Marjorie (1905); and Elinor (1907), and two of the Frost children died. Elliot died of cholera in 1900, and Elinor died of complications from birth just weeks after she was born. Additionally, during that time, Frost and Elinor tried several endeavors, including poultry farming, all of which were fairly unsuccessful.

Despite such challenges, it was during this time that Frost acclimated himself to rural life. In fact, he grew to depict it quite well, and began setting many poems in the countryside. While two of these, “The Tuft of Flowers” and “The Trial by Existence,” would be published in 1906, he could not find any publishers who were willing to underwrite his other poems.Public Recognition for Poetry

In 1912, Frost and Elinor decided to sell the farm in New Hampshire and move the family to England, where more publishers would be willing to take a chance on new poets, they believed.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – Famous Poets

 

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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Nationality – British
Lifespan – 1859- 1930
Family – Father was Charles a civil servant
Education – Edinburgh University
Career – Poet, novelist, and editor
Famous works – Sherlock Holmes and The Hound of the Baskervilles

THE SNOWMAN BY WALLACE STEENS YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

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Wallace Stevens was regarded as one of the most significant American poets of the 20th century. Stevens largely ignored the literary world and he did not receive widespread recognition until the publication of his Collected Poems (1954). In this work Stevens explored inside a profound philosophical framework the dualism between concrete reality and the human imagination. For most of his adult life, Stevens pursued contrasting careers as a insurance executive and a poet.

The Snow Man

1950S

One must have a mind of winter 
To regard the frost and the boughs 
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time 
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, 
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think 
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land 
Full of the same wind 
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

WALLACE STEVENS

Dylan Thomas ” Do not go Gentle into that good night ” Your Favourite poem.

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One of the best-known poets of the twentieth century, Dylan Thomas was born in 1914 in Swansea, a small industrial city on the southern coast of Wales, one of the countries of Great Britain. Thomas’s father, a school teacher, gave him the name “Dylan” after the name of a sea god in Celtic mythology, little knowing that the poet’s eventual fame would help make this name such a popular one today. Thomas’s father also gave the poet an early awareness of the native Welsh traditions, as well as the classics of English literature. 
As a boy, Thomas was athletic and impressionable, and spent much of his time outdoors. He loved visiting the beautiful seaside near Swansea and staying duringsummer vacations at a relative’s farm, a scene that inspired one of Thomas’s most famous oems, “Fern Hill.” The imagery of the Welsh countryside and coasts reappears throughout Thomas’s poetry. 

Thomas was a very precocious poet. His earliest recorded poem, a humorous piece entitled, “The Song of the Mischievous Dog,” was composed when Thomas was just eleven years old. As a teenager, Thomas kept on writing, and once claimed that he had “innumerable exercise books full of poems.” Leaving high school at sixteen, Thomas went to work as a reporter for a local newspaper, the South Wales Evening Post. Unhappy with this occupation, Thomas moved to London where he was finally discovered as a poet when he won a poetry contest. But Thomas’s early poems in his notebooks were not empty exercises: in later years, Thomas kept returning to these poems, collecting and reworking many of them for inclusion in later publications. 

Thomas’s first book of poems was published in 1934 when Thomas was twenty years old. Thomas went on to publish three more books of poetry, as well as a final collection of his poems near the end of his life. It turned out that Thomas was gifted in other kinds of writing too: he wrote short stories, some of which are collected in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog; a radio play, Under Milk Wood; and various scripts, lectures, and talks. Among these prose writings is Thomas’s story, A Child’s Christmas in Wales, a beloved childhood remembrance of the holiday season. 

After beginning his literary career in London, in 1938 Thomas moved back to Wales where he spent most of the remainder of his life. Here Thomas, who had married Caitlin MacNamara in 1937, had three children. His home in Wales was now the small seaside village of Laugharne (pronounced “larn”) on the river Towy (pronounced “toe-ee”). Thomas’s home, called the Boat House, was located right on the estuary of the Towy, and if you visit Wales you can see this same house preserved as it was, including the small potting shed that Thomas used for writing his poems. There you can look out the same window with its beautiful view of the water and the sea birds. 

As Thomas became more and more popular, he was invited to come to the United States to give readings and talks. Those who attended these recitations recall the intense voice that Thomas used for reading his own poems, as well as reading poems by others. Some of these readings were recorded and, if you listen to them, you will hear the song-like quality of Thomas’s voice, which some called the voice of a “wild Welsh bard” (bard is an old word for poet). However, several years of the reading tours began to take their toll. After a heavy bout of drinking, Thomas died in New York in 1953. He was only thirty-nine years old. His body was returned to Laugharne to be buried. 

Although his life was short, Thomas made a deep impression on those who knew him or who read his poems, or who heard them read by the poet. Although he was born just as the modern age of literary culture was beginning, Thomas wrote poetry which often used traditional forms of rhythm, rhyme, and meter, and this seemed to represent a welcome return to an earlier and happier form of literature. Thomas was also one of the modern writers who helped return English poetry to its roots in its own language. Rather than choosing long words derived from foreign languages, Thomas preferred to impress readers with strong, short words from native English. But what Dylan Thomas will be remembered for most of all are his many poems which insist that life will carry on from generation to generation, all with the same vigor as before. 

Thomas wrote one of his more famous poems, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Dylan Thomas

Charlotte Bronte – Biography

 

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Charlotte Bronte (1816 – 1855) Novelist and Poet.

Charlotte was the daughter of the Rev. Patrick Bronte,with her sisters Emily and Anne, Charlotte was brought up in a small parsonage in the Yorkshire village of Haworth. Whilst still in her childhood the Bronte sisters lost their mother and as the eldest Charlotte took up the a role of looking out for her sisters Emily and Anne. Charlotte was described as: “the motherly friend and guardian of her younger sisters,”

The sisters had an unusual upbringing in that their house overlooked the village graveyard. To escape from these surroundings and the loss of their mother they would often spend time creating stories of fantasy lands. These fantasy stories were often based on the soldiers of their strict, religious aunt, Elisabeth Branwell. Later in a poem Charlotte wrote:

“We wove a web in childhood, / A web of sunny air.”

After various efforts as schoolmistresses and governesses, the sisters took to literature and published a volume of poems under the names of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Unfortunately these early publications were a commercial failure. However this did not deter Charlotte and she continued with her novels such as ‘The Professor’ and ‘Jane Eyre’. Jane Eyre proved to be tremendously popular with the public when it appeared in 1854. The novel has gained status as one of the classics of English literature for its originality and strength of writing.

Charlotte was married to her father’s curate, the Rev. A. Nicholls, but after a short though happy married life she died in childbirth in 1855.

“Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. “

– Charlotte Bronte

Sources: A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature

by John W. Cousin

Evening Solace

The human heart has hidden treasures, 
In secret kept, in silence sealed;­
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, 
Whose charms were broken if revealed. 
And days may pass in gay confusion, 
And nights in rosy riot fly, 
While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion, 
The memory of the Past may die.

But, there are hours of lonely musing, 
Such as in evening silence come, 
When, soft as birds their pinions closing, 
The heart’s best feelings gather home. 
Then in our souls there seems to languish 
A tender grief that is not woe; 
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish, 
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions, 
Float softly back­a faded dream; 
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others’ sufferings seem. 
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding, 
How longs it for that time to be, 
When, through the mist of years receding, 
Its woes but live in reverie !

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, 
On evening shade and loneliness; 
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, 
Feel no untold and strange distress­ 
Only a deeper impulse given 
By lonely hour and darkened room, 
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven, 
Seeking a life and world to come.

 

 

 

Saddest poem

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I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.” 

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. 

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. 

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her. 

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. 

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me. 

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her. 

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me. 

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer. 

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. 

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. 

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long. 

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her. 

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda
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