I hope everyone has some fun plans for the weekend. I’m hoping to get some reading in as I’m doing really well with my reading so far this month so I don’t want it to slip.
My chosen poem this week is by the African-American writer, poet, literary critic, anthologist and publisher William Stanley Braithwaite (1878-1962).
Rhapsody
I am glad daylong for the gift of song,
For time and change and sorrow;
For the sunset wings and the world-end things
Which hang on the edges of to-morrow.
I am glad for my heart whose gates apart
Are the entrance-place of wonders,
Where dreams come in from the rush and din
Like sheep from the rains and thunders.
William Stanley Braithwaite
I can’t believe we are in September already. I will soon be back at school and sadly this will mean less reading but it will be nice to get back to teaching.
My chosen poem today is by Lord Alfred Douglas (1870-1945). Douglas was an English poet and journalist and a lover of Oscar Wilde.
The Cod
There's something very strange and odd
About the habits of the Cod.
For when you're swimming in the sea,
He sometimes bites you on the knee.
And though his bites are not past healing,
It is a most unpleasant feeling.
And when you're diving down below,
He often nips you on the toe.
And though he doesn't hurt you much,
He has a disagreeable touch.
There's one thing to be said for him, -
It is treat to see him swim.
But though he swims in graceful curves,
He rather gets upon your nerves.
Lord Alfred Douglas
I hope everyone has had a good week so far and have some fun plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem today is by the Romantic poet Anna Seward (1742-1809).
Sonnet: To the Poppy
While summer roses all their glory yield
To crown the votary of love and joy,
Misfortune's victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.
So stands in the long grass a love-crazed maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her garish ribbons, smeared with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her tortured mind,
And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,
Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed,
Thou, flimsy, showy, melancholy weed.
Anna Seward
I hope everyone has had a good week and is looking forward to the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by the award-winning poet Chrissie Gittins.
The Unseen Life of Trees
When the fraying skeins of silver birch
sway in the wind they think of
lulling water in the floating harbour.
the dried out plants on a deck,
the bespoke barge door cut to close
on a trapezium.
A sparse beech globe of yellow
holds an afternoon with two young friends,
who will walk through their vivid lives
beyond the end of mine.
A ball of mistletoe hangs
way up in spindle branches balancing
a trowel, a ginger cake,
and a framed copy of Jessop's 1802
'Design for Improving the Harbour of Bristol'.
Umber banks of oak climb the hillside
dragging children by the hand.
'There will be time,' they whisper,
canopy to canopy.
'There will be time, before
all our leaves stretch out across the frosted ground.'
Chrissie Gittins
I hope everyone is well. I have had a lovely day which has involved some book shopping and an Eeyore purchase.
My chosen poem today is by the painter and poet W. J. Turner ( 1889-1946).
The Lion
Strange spirit with inky hair,
Tail tufted stiff in rage,
I saw with sudden stare
Leap on the printed page.
The stillness of its roar
For midnight deserts torn
Clove silence to the core
Like the blare of a great horn
I saw the sudden sky;
Cities in crumbling sand;
The stars fall wheeling by;
The lion roaring stand:
The stars fall wheeling by,
Their silent, silver strain,
Cold on his glittering eye,
Cold on his craven mane
The full-orbed moon shone down,
The silence was so lid,
From jaws wide-open thrown
His voice hung like a cloud.
Earth shrank to blackest air;
That spirit stiff in rage
Into some midnight lair
Leapt from the printed page.
W. J. Turner
I hope everyone has had a good week so far. It’s the weekend tomorrow woo!
The poem I have chosen today is about a shark and the reason I have chosen it is because I am obsessed with films about sharks. I love a good shark film and I am throughly excited about going to see Meg 2 next week at our local cinema.
The Maldive Shark
About the Shark, phlegmatical one,
Pale sot of the Maldive sea,
The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim,
How alert in attendance be.
From his saw-pit of mouth, from his charnel of maw
They have nothing of harm to dread,
But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank
Or before his Gorgonian head;
Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth
In white triple tiers of glittering gates,
And there find a haven when peril's abroad,
An asylum in jaws of the Fates!
They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey,
Yet never partake of the treat -
Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull,
Pale ravener of horrible meat.
Herman Melville
I hope everyone has had a good week so far and has some good plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by one of my favourite authors Emily Bronte (1818-1848).
Past, Present, Future
Tell me, tell me, smiling child,
What the past is like to thee?
'An Autumn evening soft and mild
With a wind that sighs mournfully.'
Tell me, what is the present hour?
'A green and flowery spray
Where a young bird sits gathering its power
To mount and fly away.'
And what is the future, happy one?
'A sea beneath a cloudless sun;
A mighty, glorious, dazzling sea
Stretching into infinity.'
Emily Bronte
I hope everyone has some fab plans for the weekend.
My chosen poem this week is by an author who I only know for his many books and have never known any of his poetry before so I thought it was high time to explore some of his poetry. I also chose this poem because I am forever doing battle with the ivy in our garden.
The Ivy Green
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Charles Dickens
Happy Reading
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What is everyone up to over the weekend? I have quite a busy weekend planned but I am hoping to get some reading in as well.
My chosen poem this week is by the writer Alfred Noyes (1880-1958) whose most famous work was the poem ‘The Highwayman’.
Daddy Fell into the Pond
Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day.
And there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!
And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
'Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed.' Click!
Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
When
Daddy fell into the pond!
Alfred Noyes
My chosen poem this week is by Brian Moses (1950) the children’s author and poet.
A Feather from an Angel
Anton's box of treasures held
a silver key and a glassy stone,
a figurine made of polished bone
and a feather from an angel.
The figurine was from Borneo,
the stone from France or Italy,
the silver key was a mystery
but the feather came from an angel.
We might have believed him if he's said
the feather fell from a bleached white crow
but he always replied, 'It's an angel's, I know,
a feather from an angel.'
We might have believed him if he'd said,
'An albatross let the feather fall,'
But he had no doubt, no doubt at all,
his feather came from an angel.
'I thought I'd dreamt him one night,' he'd say,
'But in the morning I knew he's been there;
he left a feather on my bedside chair,
a feather from an angel.'
And it seems that all my life I've looked
for that sort of belief that nothing could shift,
something simple yet precious as Anton's gift,
a feather from an angel.
Brian Moses
Lady Book Dragon 