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Burns Night

Thousands of people in the UK

Will be celebrating the life of Robert Burns

The celebrated poet of Scotland

Reading his poems in turns

Robert Burns born into a farming family

In Alloway, Ayrshire in 1759

He died at the age of 37years

On this earth for a very short time

Yet in that very short time

He took the Scottish literary by storm

Secured a place in history as a legend

From the day he was born

So as Burns night approaches

Let all celebrate his plight

By reading his wonderful work

Remembering his poetry on Burns Night

Malcolm G Bradshaw

In My Mind

 

two loversxxxxxxxxxxx

Memories are always part of us
Whether we share them or hold on
The mind can replay when needed
Especially from dusk to dawn.

Thoughts spill forth of you still
The curve of your face and smile
Scents of a shower or your perfume
Eyes closed you linger for a while.

Soft cotton slips to the floor
Candlelight dances on your skin
Light kisses and caresses flow
Emotions heighten once again.

Two hearts beating in unison
Fingers laced as we make love
It might be just a moment now
But still fits like a glove.

Dreams might be all that’s left
Keep them safe and hold them tight
The sunrise will bring a new day
For now, there is still the night.

Charles Townsend

Graypoet

Who is in control


 
When the sun is setting in the western sky
And the daylight surrenders to the darkness of the night
When the day’s work is done and people have time to relax
When the stars of the Milky Way come into sight
Then the magnitude of the universe pervades my soul
And I ask myself the question “who is in control?”
 
If God is in control why do so many disasters occur?
Why do the powers of evil have so much sway?
These are the questions that I often ask myself
As I lie on my bed at the closing of the day
I have a faith that joy can overcome sorrow
And that daylight will bring a new tomorrow
 
Many folk believe that God was responsible for creation
But looking around the world today many doubts arise
For all they can see is turmoil and disorder
And nothing that happens is much of a surprise
Church attendance is falling, there are fewer people in the pews
Which means that fewer people are hearing the gospel’s good news
 
For this reason many folk lack faith in the future
And their lives are lacking any real foundation
The gospel message provides hope and strength for living
Which in times of trouble is a source of consolation
In our despair it will bring comfort to our soul
And we shall never doubt who really is in control
 
Ron Martin

The start of a new day


As the dawn awakes from its slumber

As the night slowly slips away

As the sun arises to takes its place

It’s the start of a brand new day

The chill from the midnight air

Is replaced by the warmth of the sun

The flowers awake from their rest

A kaleidoscope of colour has begun

The animals grazing in the fields

Bird’s songs fill the air with sound

A gentle breeze disturbs the leaves

As they majestically fall to the ground

A woodpecker in the distance

Noisily tapping at the trees

The butterflies in all their glory

Collecting honey, the sound of the bees

The rain as it’s gently falling

Too nourish nature’s jewels

It replenishes all the rivers

And fills all the ponds and pools

A rumble of thunder in the distance

A rainbow across the sky’s

All filled with breathtaking colours

Bringing beauty to our eyes

When the new day is over

The dusk will enter with haste

The moonlight will cover the earth

Casting shadows all over the place

As we say goodbye to another day

Anticipating the start of a new dawn

Mother nature will not disappoint us

The treasures of her new morn

Malcolm Bradshaw

A winters night

A Summer’s breeze

A Winter’s night 

A Spring leaf An Autumn bright 

These are the things I no longer see,

Due to the things that haunt me

A torn limb, shattered bones,

Broken dreams and awful wounds

Why should one forego these scenes?

Learn again to live your dreams 

Cooling breeze on a summer’s night 

A roaring fire, curled up tight 

Dew drops on flowered fields 

Falling leaves into piles I can dream,

I can hope For old scenes to help me cope

One new day I shall see,

Old welcome memories

 But for now, I can only see,

new scenes that taunt me

In my dreams, in my head,

haunting things full of dread

Of a life lived too fast,

Wishing to regain my past

Something good and something fresh

A bright new view for me to look to,

A whole new world for my future……

Dan Fry

NOTTINGHAM POET

Ice and Snow

ice-snow-world-1

People never tell of ice
Or the snow that glitters nice
Or of the icy crunchy snow
Of that most people do not know
The crunch that sounds beneath your feet
As your sole and ice compete
When in the morning as you wake
You see a single white snow flake
You look out of the iced window
The look out seems so very low
Because the snow fell all night
It has left behind its sheet of white 

Helen Windass

FROZEN NIGHT – Promote Yourself

 

threennnnnnnn

Winter embraces the naked trees-
clinging, engulfing,
breathes down their limbs- fragile, splayed,
heavy with icicles,
dripping
upon the frozen grass-
darkened emerald
sprinkled with crimson dew
under this gray sky- half dead
gutted with bright holes
staring down
with its thousand eyes
upon my angular face:
torn- the lines lifeless.
No longer am I
who I’m supposed to be.

A filthy, caustic screen of time
a smog- blinding, suffocating,
separates me from you,
from us.
No longer the melting sun-
upon this world of constant night-
in warm splinters of broken sunlight
does shower promises of brightness,
of purification.

I tried turning my back
tried not to vomit these scarlet tears
but amid whiter ghosts
staring down from ashen heavens,
my white flag disappeared-
crumpled beneath their feet-
and I lost.

I lost
to the monster I created,
to the monster I became;
the fire that once burned in my heart,
fueling me, pushing me,
now devours me, slowly,
chilling,
as I lie suspended over this chasm
floating midair
along the parallel axes of time and life
somewhere between now and then
between myself and my monster
between alive and otherwise…

-The Manoj Arora.

****

http://themanojarorablog.wordpress.com/

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night- Famous Poets – What’s your favourite poem?

 

Image depicting Dylan Thomas smoking a cigar

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 the 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

SENT IN BY ninjacaity

Dylan Thomas poet
Dylan Marlais Thomas was a Welsh poet and writer who wrote exclusively in English. In addition to poetry, he wrote short stories and scripts for film and radio, which he often performed himself. His public readings, particularly in America, won him great acclaim; his sonorous voice with a subtle Welsh lilt became almost as famous as his works. His best-known works include the “play for voices” Under Milk Wood and the celebrated villanelle for his dying father, “Do not go gentle into that good night”. Appreciative critics have also noted the craftsmanship and compression of poems such as “In my Craft or Sullen Art”, and the rhapsodic lyricism in “And death shall have no dominion” and “Fern Hill”.

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

 thomas ddddd
 

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

Saddest poem

Sum_Pleiades_Dec_2007_4_x_10_mins_each_2x2_RGB_ps_1_low

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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