I hope everyone has exciting plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by Robert Louis Stevenson and the poem explores how imagination creates a whole new world for a child to play in.
The Land of Story Books
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And where the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story Books.
Robert Louis Stevenson
I hope everyone is coping well with the first week back at work after New Year. I have come down with a nasty cold so I must admit I have been resting and reading to hopefully get over it quickly.
My chosen poem today is by A. A. Milne.
Said to her Nan:
'Please will you tell me how God began?
Somebody must have made Him. So
Who could it be, cos I want to know?'
And Nurse said, 'Well!'
And Ann said, 'Well?
I know you know, and I wish you'd tell.'
And Nurse took pins from her mouth, and said,
'Now then, darling, it's time for bed.'
Had a wonderful plan:
She would run round the world till she found a man
Who knew exactly how God began.
She got up early, she dressed, and ran
Trying to find an Important Man.
She ran to London and knocked at the door
Of the Lord High Doodelum's coach-and-four.
'Please, sir (if there's anyone in),
However-and-ever did God begin?'
The Lord High Doodelum lay in bed
But out of the window, large and red,
Came the Lord High Coachman's face instead.
And the Lord High Coachman laughed and said:
'Well, what put that in your quaint little head?'
Elizabeth Ann went home again
And took from the ottoman Jennifer Jane.
'Jenniferjane,' said Elizabeth Ann,
'Tell me at once how God began.'
And Jane, who didn't much care for speaking,
Replied in her usual way by squeaking.
What did it mean? Well, to be quite candid,
I don't know, but Elizabeth Ann did.
Elizabeth Ann said softly, 'Oh!
Thank you Jennifer. Now I know.'
A. A. Milne
I hope everyone is ready for Christmas and Father Christmas visiting.
When I saw this poem I thought it was perfect for Christmas Eve so I have been saving it just for today.
The poem is by author and poet Timothy Tocher.
Santa needs new reindeer.
The first bunch has grown old.
Dasher has arthritis;
Comet hates the cold.
Prancer's sick of staring
at Dancer's big behind.
Cupid married Blitzen
and Donder lost his mind.
Dancer's mad at Vixen
for stepping on his toes.
Vixen's being thrown out -
she laughed at Rudolph's nose.
If you are a reindeer
we hope you will apply.
There is just one tricky part:
You must know how to fly.
The countdown to Christmas has definitely begun. I have been frantically wrapping presents today and trying to catch up on little jobs.
I have gone for a poem today which is all about the countdown to Christmas.
A Week to Christmas
Sunday with six whole days to go,
How we'll endure it I don't know!
Monday the goodies are in the making,
Spice smells of pudding and mince pies a-baking.
Tuesday, Dad's home late and quiet as a mouse
He smuggles packages into the house.
Wednesday's the day for decorating the tree.
Will the lights work again? We'll have to see!
Thursday's for last minute shopping and hurry,
We've never seen Mum in quite such a flurry!
Friday is Christmas Eve when we'll lie awake
Trying to sleep before the day break.
And that special quiet of Christmas morn
When out there somewhere Christ was born.
Happy Friday! I hope everyone has exciting plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by Thomas Hardy.
Snow in the Suburbs
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.
A sparrow enters the tree,
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eye
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodgings lumps with a rush.
The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.
I hope everyone has had a good week. I have had a good week sorting out Christmas presents and I am actually starting to feel like I am a little ahead, instead of my usual panic on the week leading up to Christmas.
My chosen poem this week is by Robert Frost who was one of the United States’ best loved poets and playwrights. He had four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry and a Congressional Gold Medal.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold.
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
I hope everyone has had a good week and some good plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem today is by one of my favourite authors Alan Alexander Milne. Although Milne wrote and adapted plays, wrote poems and adult fiction, he is best known for creating Edward bear, otherwise known as Winnie-the-Pooh and his many friends.
I have a house where I go
When there's too many people,
I have a house where I go
Where no one can be;
I have a house where I go,
Where nobody ever says 'No'
Where no one says anything - so
There is no one but me.
A. A. Milne
I hope everyone has some good plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by Tim Burton.
The Girl with Many Eyes
One day in the park,
I had quite a surprise.
I met a girl,
who had many eyes.
She was really quite pretty
(and also quite shocking)
and I noticed she had a mouth,
so we ended up talking.
We talked about flowers,
and her poetry classes,
and the problems she'd have
if she ever wore glasses.
It's great to know a girl
who has so many eyes,
but you get really wet
when she breaks down and cries.
I hope everyone has had a good week so far and everyone has exciting weekend plans. I have a busy weekend of work but I am hoping to fit in some reading time as well.
My chosen poem today is by the English poet Ted Hughes (1930-1998). Hughes was also a translator and children’s author. He was appointed poet laureate in 1984 and held the post until his death.
Who's killed the leaves?
Me, says the apple, I've killed them all.
Fat as a bomb or a cannonball
I've killed the leaves.
Who sees them drop?
Me, says the pear, they will leave me all bare
So all the people can point and stare.
I see them drop.
Who'll catch their blood?
Me, me, me, says the marrow, the marrow.
I'll get so rotund that they'll need a wheelbarrow.
I'll catch their blood.
Who'll make their shroud?
Me, says the swallow, there's just time enough
Before I must pack all my spools and be off.
I'll make their shroud.
Who'll dig their grave?
Me, says the river, with the power of the clouds
A brown deep grave I'll dig under my floods.
I'll dig their grave.
Who'll be their parson?
Me, says the Crow, for it is well known
I study the bible right down to the bone.
I'll be their parson.
Who'll be chief mourner?
Me, says the wind, I will cry through the grass
The people will pale and go cold when I pass.
I'll be chief mourner.
Who'll carry the coffin?
Me, says the sunset, the whole world will weep
To see me lower it into the deep.
I'll carry the coffin.
Who'll sing a psalm?
Me, says the tractor, with my gear-grinding glottle
I'll plough up the stubble and sing through my throttle.
I'll sing the psalm.
Who'll toll the bell?
Me, says the robin, my song in October
Will tell the still gardens the leaves are over.
I'll toll the bell.
My chosen poem this week is by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882). Longfellow was an American poet and educator. He was also the first American to translate Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy and was one of the Fireside Poets from New England.
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellowed blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
The love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, - rejoicing, - sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow