I hope everyone has had a good week and has some fun plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by the poet and author Edith Nesbit (1858-1924).
Spring Song
All winter through I sat alone,
Doors barred and windows shuttered fast,
And listened to the wind's faint moan moan,
And ghostly mutterings of the past;
And in the pauses of the rain,
Mid whispers of dead sorrow and sin,
Love tapped upon the window pane:
I had no heart to let him in.
But now, with spring, my doors stand wide;
My windows let delight creep through;
I hear the skylark sing outside;
I see the crocus, golden new.
The pigeons on my window-sill,
Winging and wooing, flirt and flout,-
Now Love must enter if he will,
I have no heart to keep him out.
Edith Nesbit
Apologies for the lack of posting but this week has not been a good week. For this reason I am posting an old favourite to cheer myself up.
Bobby Shaftoe
Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea,
Silver buckles on his knee;
He'll come back and marry me,
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.
Bobby Shaftoe's bright and fair,
Combing down his yellow hair,
He's my ain for evermair,
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.
Bobby Shaftoe's tall and slim,
Always dressed so neat and trim,
The ladies they all keek at him,
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.
Bobby Shaftoe's getten a bairn
For to dandle in his arms;
In his arm and on his knee,
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.
Anon
My chosen poem today is by the poet Eugene Field (1850-1895). Field was an American writer, best known for his children’s poetry and humorous essays.
Wynken, Blynken and Nod
Wynken. Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden show, -
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
'Where are you going, and what do you wish?'
The old moon asked the three.
'We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,'
Said Wynken,
Blynken
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
'Now cast your nets wherever you wish, -
Never afraid are we!'
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam, -
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little heard,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:-
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Eugene Field
I hope everyone has some fab plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by another new poet for me. Carolyn Wells (1862-1942) was an American author and children’s poet.
A Bicycle Built for Two
There was an ambitious young eel
Who determined to ride on a wheel;
But try as he might,
He couldn't ride right,
In spite of his ardor and zeal.
If he sat on the saddle to ride
His tail only pedalled one side;
And I'm sure you'll admit
That an eel couldn't sit
On a bicycle saddle astride.
Or if he hung over the top,
He could go, but he never could stop;
For of course it is clear
He had no way to steer,
And under the wheel he would flop.
His neighbour, observing the fun,
Said, 'I think that the thing can be done,
If you'll listen to me,
You'll quickly agree
That two heads are better than one.
'And this is my project, old chap,
Around our two waists I will wrap
This beautiful belt
Of bottle-green felt
And fasten it firm with a strap.'
This done, with a dignified mien
The two squirmed up on the machine,
And rode gayly away,
Or at least, so they say,
Who witnessed the wonderful scene.
Carolyn Wells
I hope everyone has some fun plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem today is by a Chinese poet Li Po (701-762).
Poem is translated by Shigeyoshi Obata.
Addressed Humorously to Tu Fu
Here! is this you on the top of Fan-ko Mountain,
Wearing a huge hat in the noon-day sun?
How thin, how wretchedly thin, you have grown!
You must have been suffering from poetry again.
Li Po
I hope you all have some fab plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem for this week is by the English poet, school teacher and writer Charles Causley (1917-2003).
I am the Song
I am the song that sings the bird.
I am the leaf that grows the land.
I am the tide that moves the moon.
I am the stream that halts the sand.
I am the cloud that drives the storm.
I am the earth that lights the sun.
I am the fire that strikes the stone.
I am the clay that shapes the hand.
I am the word that speaks the man.
Charles Causley
I hope everyone has some fab books to read over the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by the Jamaican- American poet and writer Claude McKay (1890-1948). McKay studied in the United States and became a prominent figure in the Harlem Renaissance.
After the Winter
Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning's white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We'll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.
And we will seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee,
And we will build a cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.
Claude McKay
I hope everyone has had a good week so far and have some good plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem for this week is by another new poet for me, Sergei Yesenin. Yesenin (1895-1925) was a Russian lyric poet.
The Birch Tree
Under my window
Tucked in the snow
White birch retired
Clad in silver glow.
On the fluffy branches
Snowy-trim with silver-tinge
Melted around catkins
Forming white fringe.
Like golden fires
Snow-flakes blazed
While birch stood still
Asleep, or amazed.
Meanwhile, lazily
Strolling around,
Dawn threw more 'silver'
On the twigs (and ground).
Sergei Yesenin
I hope you all have some fab plans for the weekend. I am rather gloomy now the Christmas decorations have come down as I always find the house so bare and dull once the pretty decorations are taken down.
My chosen poem today is from a new poet for me. Sara Coleridge (1802-1852) was a translator, novelist and poet. Coleridge hailed from a very literary family, her father was the early Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Her uncle was the Poet Laureate Robert Southey and her neighbour was William Wordsworth. Coleridge was surrounded by talented poets.
The Garden Year
January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes, loud and shrill,
To stir the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daises at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs
Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots, and gillyflowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit;
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasant;
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast;
Then the leaves are whirling fast.
Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.
Sara Coleridge
I hope you are all looking forward to New Year and have some fun plans for New Year’s Eve. We will probably have a quiet New Year’s Eve at home but we have a nice bottle of champagne to help us celebrate.
My chosen poem today is by one of my favourites Eleanor Farjeon.
Poetry
What is Poetry? Who knows?
Not a rose, but the scent of a rose;
Not a sky, but the light in the sky;
Not the fly, but the gleam of the fly;
Not the sea, but the sound of the sea;
Not myself, but what makes me
See, hear, and feel something that prose
Cannot: and what it is, who knows?
Eleanor Farjeon
Lady Book Dragon 