Friday Poetry: Eve Merriam

Happy Friday!

I hope you all have a fantastic weekend planned.

Today’s poem is by a new poet for me, Eve Merriam. Eve Merriam was an American poet and writer.

Thumbprint

On the pad of my thumb

are whorls, whirls, wheels

in a unique design:

mine alone.

What a treasure to own!

My own flesh, my own feelings.

No other, however grand or base,

can ever contain the same.

My signature,

thumbing the pages of my time.

My universe key,

my singularity.

Impress, implant,

I am myself,

of all my atom parts I am the sum.

And out of my blood and my brain

I make my own interior weather,

my own sun and rain.

Imprint my mark upon the world

whatever I shall become.

Eve Merriam

Friday Poetry: Rachel Field

Well the weather is starting to upset me, I want it to be summer again. I really dislike getting up in the morning and it is dark and coming home from work in the dark and when the clocks go back at the end of October it will be even worse.

So todays poem is about migrating birds. I must admit I am rather envious of the Wild Geese following the sun.

Something Told the Wild Geese

Something told the wild geese

It was time to go.

Though the fields lay golden

Something whispered, – ‘Snow.’

Leaves were green and stirring,

Berries, lustre-glossed,

But beneath warm feathers

Something cautioned, – ‘Frost.’

All the sagging orchards

Steamed with amber spice,

But each wild breast stiffened

At remembered Ice.

Something told the wild geese

It was time to fly, –

Summer sun was on their wings,

Winter in their cry.

Rachel Field

Happy reading.

Friday Poetry: Robert Louis Stevenson

Happy Friday my fellow Book Dragons.

I hope everyone has some wonderful bookish plans for the weekend. I sadly have a very full weekend work wise so will be lucky to get much reading in.

Today I noticed how the leaves on the trees are starting to change colour and that autumn is definitely on the way, so I thought an autumn based poem was required.

Autumn Fires

In the other gardens

And all up the vale,

From the autumn bonfires

See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over

And all the summer flowers,

The red fire blazes,

The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!

Something bright in all!

Flowers in the summer,

Fires in the fall!

Robert Louis Stevenson

Happy Reading

Picture is not of a bonfire but one of the fires we have in our house.

Friday Poetry: Tolkien

Happy Friday Everyone!

Apologies in the delay of the Friday Poetry post, yesterday I just did not feel like blogging and today assignments got the better of me.

Today I have gone for a poem by my all time favourite author J. R. R. Tolkien. This poem features in his book The Fellowship of the Ring, which is the first book of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I used to read this trilogy every year but have not read it for at least 6 or 7 years, I think it might be time to reread an old favourite.

All That is Gold Does Not Glitter

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost.

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

J. R. R. Tolkien

Happy Reading.

Friday Poetry: Brian Patten

Happy Friday!

I hope everyone has exciting bookish plans for the weekend.

So my chosen poem this week is celebrating some of my favourite children’s books so I thought I would share it with you all.

The poem is by Brian Patten an English poet and author born 1946. He writes mostly lyrical poetry about human relationships.

Reading the Classics

The Secret Garden will never age;

The tangled undergrowth remains as fresh

As when the author put down her pen.

Its mysteries are as poignant now as then.

Though Time’s a thief it cannot thieve

One page from the world of make-believe.

On the track the Railway Children wait;

Alice still goes back and forth through the glass;

In Tom’s Midnight Garden Time unfurls,

And children still discover secret worlds.

At the Gates of Dawn Pan plays his pipes;

Mole and Ratty still float in awe downstream.

The weasels watch, hidden in the grass.

None cares how quickly human years pass.

Though Time’s a thief it cannot thieve

One page from the world of make-believe.

Brian Patten

Happy Reading.

Friday Poetry: Christina Rossetti

Well August is drawing to a close and this inevitably means I will be back teaching on the 2nd September. I must admit over August I have basically lived in shorts, even on cold days because I just refuse to wear trousers in the summer. In September though it will be back to boring work clothes and living life by my diary and I must admit I am rather sad to leave the freedom behind.

So whilst reading through some poetry I discovered this wonderful poem by one of my favourite poets and I thought it summed up all of my feelings and so I would share it with you all today.

Fly Away, Fly Away Over the Sea by Christina Rossetti

Fly away, fly away over the sea,

Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done;

Come again, come again, come back to me,

Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.

Christina Rossetti

Happy Weekend.

Friday Poetry: Christina Rossetti

Hello everyone,

I do hope everyone has a very bookish weekend planned ahead.

This week I have chosen another poem by one of my favourites, Christina Rossetti. This poem is about spans of time and to be honest this week I have been thinking a lot about time, working out how long I have before I’m back teaching and also realising that in September I will have very little spare time. As per usual as I have taken on too much and need to sit down and think about how I am going to sort through everything and make it more manageable for myself.

How Many Seconds in a Minute?

How many seconds in a minute?

Sixty, and no more in it.

How many minutes in an hour?

Sixty for sun and shower.

How many hours in a day?

Twenty-four for work and play.

How many days in a week?

Seven both to hear and speak.

How many weeks in a month?

Four, as the swift moon runn’th.

How many months in a year?

Twelve the almanack makes clear.

How many years in an age?

One hundred says the sage.

How many ages in time?

No one knows the rhyme.

Christina Rossetti

Happy reading.

Friday Poetry: John Rice

Yay! Has everyone got that Friday feeling?

I was flicking through some poetry and found this poem and loved the idea of fairies going to school. I’ve always imagined fairies happily playing games and dancing around but never going to school, but I suppose they must go to school, otherwise how do they learn all their fairy skills?

The Fairy School under the Loch

The wind sings its gusty song.

The bell rings its rusty ring.

The underwater fairy children

dive and swim through school gates.

They do not get wet.

The waves flick their flashing spray.

A school of fish wriggles its scaly way.

The underwater fairy children

learn their liquidy lessons.

Their reading books are always dry.

The seal straighten in a stretchy mass.

Teresa the Teacher flits and floats from class to class.

The underwater fairy children

count, play, sing and recite,

their clothes not in the least bit damp.

The rocks creak in their cracking skin.

A fairy boat drifts into a loch of time.

The underwater fairy children

lived, learned and left this life-

their salty stories now dry as their cracked wings.

John Rice

Happy Weekend Reading!

Friday Poetry: John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

Hello!

Yesterday my husband, Lord Book Dragon got to fly in a Spitfire. This was his birthday present from his parents and siblings. Needless to say he loved every minute of it. Due to this I decided to choose a suitable poem.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr (1922-1941) was a World War II Royal Canadian Air Force fighter pilot and poet. He flew spitfires in Britain until he was sadly killed in an accidental mid air collision over England in 1941.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr

Happy reading!

Friday Poetry: Langston Hughes

Hello my fellow readers!

I am back home now after an amazing holiday, I am slowly getting used to the time difference.

I have a lot of book reviews to write over the next few days, so I will be playing catch up blog wise but hopefully I will get there. Usually I post my Friday Poetry entry in the morning so apologies this is late in the day.

The chosen poem this week is by Langston Hughes, Hughes is best remembered as a pioneer of American jazz poetry. Jazz poetry has jazz like movements in rhythm, repetitive phrasing and the appearance of improvisation.

To You

To sit and dream, to sit and read,

To sit and learn about the world

Outside our world of here and now-

Our problem world-

To dream of vast horizons of the soul

Through dreams made whole,

Unfettered, free – help me!

All you who are dreamers too,

Help me to make

Our world anew.

I reach out my dreams to you.

Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

Happy Friday!