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Poetry corner

I write poetry. I have poetry website. I found that it has helped me through the bad and happy times. I write poetry about all sorts of things but I like to write about nature and peaceful things although I have written about war too. This is a recent one. I hope you enjoy it.
Ancients



I’m a child

running free
with excitement and glee
through
the
whirlwinds
of
space
feeling winds on my face.

I’m a dancer in time.
I can dance
on the arms
of
sparkling
stars
and
endless
galaxies
far.
I can drift through the skies,
Planets light up my eyes.
This universe of ours
shows how small we all are.

I’m a dancer in time.

Observing from earth
nets that sparkle and shimmer,
stars that shrink and glimmer.

The ancients gazed at deep black skies
with naked eyes.
No glasses to look,
No text in a book.
What stars they had seen
just what did they mean?
Watching seasons dance past
Food to eat at last and
talking around winter fires
Warming basic desires
Understanding at last
the stars in the skies.
For those ancient dancers in time.​
 
Thank you kind sir wrote a poem based on the Not Waving but Drowning Poem. It was based on politicians. I keep trying to think of a poem to write about T2. I was so angry about getting it and being diagnosed just before Christmas 2014. The fog has cleared somewhat and I am somewhat calmer now so I shall retire to my ladyshed for the spring/summer and write some more and maybe one about Diabetes. For you Sancho:-

​
This poem is a sly take on the poem 'Not Waving but Drowning' by Stevie Smith. When our tutor gave us the challenge for this poem I was watching Prime Ministers Question Time on the Parliament Channel on the BBC. All I could see were mouths open, yabooing, sneering, being patronising, pointscoring and saying nothing! So it was based on that but then....I took my dog for a walk..........


Not Hearing But Seeing

Your mouth moves
- but I cannot hear what you say.
Watching you,
I wonder what you think.
My mind creates words
from the movements
of your face.



Wrinkles form
making deep crevices
in your head.
A plump, wet, muscle moves
in a dark facial cavern,
like a fingerless waving hand.


The teeth in your mouth
now cemented tombstones;
bob up and down like
unanchored boats at sea.

I watch carefully and,
your mouth moves
- but I cannot hear what you say.



I tried to speak to you,
but only air escapes.
I don’t understand;
Oh... I tried...
I tried to listen to you,
and your mouth moved,

but

this time,

I don't want to hear what you say,

anymore.



Diana Leighton August 2011​
 
I wrote this when my daughter was first diagnosed

The thief

It came and stole your childhood
It's all about watching YOUR food
Your beautiful eyes look up and plead
And now your poor little fingers bleed

You used to run and play with your friends
Now your shakiness makes you depend
My heart breaks when you cry with despair
I hold you close and stroke your lovely long hair

But you're still my stunning little one
I won't let it take all of your fun
If I could I would take it from you
It's my job to lift you whenever you're blue

I love you with all that is within my heart
I don't have the answer of why it did start
But know this to be true
It will never stop me loving you
 
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That's really lovely
 
Brilliant
 
The Rebel - by Padraig Pearce

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow,
That have no treasure but hope,
No riches laid up but a memory
Of an Ancient glory.
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
I am of the blood of serfs;
The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten,
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
And, though gentle, have served churls;
The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch is familiar to me,
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers,
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone,
I that have never submitted;
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,

I that have vision and prophecy and the gift of fiery speech,
I that have spoken with God on the top of His holy hill.
And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire:
My heart has been heavy with the grief of mothers,
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
I have yearned with old wistful men, ] And laughed or cursed with young men;
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it,
Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free,
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and of their jailors
With their writs of summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel!

I could have borne stripes on my body rather than this shame of my people.
And now I speak, being full of vision;
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to the masters of my people.
I say to my people that they are holy, that they are august, despite their chains,
That they are greater than those that hold them, and stronger and purer,
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
God the unforgetting, the dear God that loves the peoples
For whom He died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people's masters: Beware,
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people,
Who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people, ] Or that Law is stronger than life and than men's desire to be free?
We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held,
Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars!
 
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This is a parody of edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. It's from a book called Poetry for Cats, poems by famous poets cats

THE END OF THE RAVEN
by
Edgar Allen Poe's cat

from Henry Beard's 'Poetry For Cats'

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
"There is nothing I like more"

Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and wierd decor
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth - "Nevermore."
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.

"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put an end to that damned ditty" - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.

 
And this one was translated by Shakespeare's cat

SOLILOQUY
by
Shakespeare's cat

from Henry Beard's 'Poetry For Cats'

To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell. To sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt. To prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the household's petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own free will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten? Who would spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard,
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scratches at a barricaded door
No claw can open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans' faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?
Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.
 
Stolen Child - W B Yeats

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest
For he comes, the human child
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand
 
Requiescat
by Oscar Wilde

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
 
Do not stand at my grave and weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.
 
DARK

Look inside me,

And see the darkness burning bright.

Look through my eyes,

And see the darkness of the light.

Blessed by Mother Nature,

With a fear I can not fight....


kevinfitzgerald
 
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me teeth,
And spotted the dangers beneath
All the toffees I chewed,
And the sweet sticky food.
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me teeth.

I wish I’d been that much more willin’
When I had more tooth there than fillin’
To give up gobstoppers,
From respect to me choppers,
And to buy something else with me shillin’.

When I think of the lollies I licked
And the liquorice allsorts I picked,
Sherbet dabs, big and little,
All that hard peanut brittle,
My conscience gets horribly pricked.

My mother, she told me no end,
‘If you got a tooth, you got a friend.’
I was young then, and careless,
My toothbrush was hairless,
I never had much time to spend.

Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right,
I flashed it about late at night,
But up-and-down brushin’
And pokin’ and fussin’
Didn’t seem worth the time – I could bite!

If I’d known I was paving the way
To cavities, caps and decay,
The murder of fillin’s,
Injections and drillin’s,
I’d have thrown all me sherbet away.

So I lie in the old dentist’s chair,
And I gaze up his nose in despair,
And his drill it do whine
In these molars of mine.
‘Two amalgam,’ he’ll say, ‘for in there.’

How I laughed at my mother’s false teeth,
As they foamed in the waters beneath.
But now comes the reckonin’
It’s methey are beckonin’
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me teeth.

Pam Ayres
 
Christina Georgina Rosetti

What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,
Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do!
Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.

What would I give for words, if only words would come!
But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb.
O merry friends, go your own way, I have never a word to say.

What would I give for tears! Not smiles but scalding tears,
To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,
To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.
 
FIORE / 1812 ROD MCKUEN

If I could set down eighteen lines
upon a clean white page
that so expressed you
detailed in minute and grand detail,
the sockets of your eyes,
the girth of you
omitting not one millennium
of your size,
if I could tell exactly how it is
to climb through you and into myself
then back inside / outside you again,
or say face to face
in rhyme or out of rhythm
how I feel this day
after only one night’s reading of you,
say it straight for your ears only
yet with no complexity
so that everyone would understand,
then I could write my final poem and be done.

I could turn the page
and find a single line that summed it up,
here it is, I would say, all for you.
Everything I have made from my life
and with my life:
here it is – what I have done
down nearly forty years
from crying in the cradle
to sobbing in the spotlight,
every laugh and long sigh in between
was preparation for just now.

Could I say it well enough
to be believed by you,
I would run back home to Pine Street
and open all the windows
W I D E
shouting to all the neighbors,
look who is living here inside –
we are
surrounded by more verdant green
than any meadow ever knew
and a multi-colored bed
wide as any known or unknown sea.

Fiore! I would shout aloud,
flower of a different hue,
Fiore with a mind of so many unseen colors
that the dahlia or the tie-dyed rose
would never dare compete with you.

If I could set down in eighteen lines
on the virgin page
followed by a second twelve
to sum a statement of us up,
I would dwell on every possibility
not leaving out the humps and hurdles.
No impossibilities exist
to keep from bringing each of us
into the realm of one.

Come into me
as I have lately come inside of you.
A fusion we are, best of both
that splits to thirds when we are together.

Are we now coming to the final spring,
nineteen hundred eighty five,
with good-byes unsaid –
only hinted at?
Fare well or better there and here.
If you can use me
call my name.
Let it be the two of us again
on either side of searing flame.
 
Poetry speaks in a way that moves us to tears
and Pamela gives us all reasons for fears
I've found with my diet
(I will not keep quiet)
That eliminating carbs has not only cleared diabetic complications but vastly improved my teeth & other health cares,
despite my advancing years.
 
My Cancer Cure
by Robert Service


"A year to live," the Doctor said;
"There is no cure," and shook his head.
Ah me! I felt as good as dead.
Yet quite resigned to fate was I,
Thinking: "Well, since I have to die
'Twill be beneath the open sky."

And so I sought a wildsome wood
Wherein a lonely cabin stood,
And doomed myself to solitude,
And there was no one I would see:
Each morn a farmer brought to me
My food and hung it on a tree.

Six eggs he brought, and milk a quart,
Enough for wretches of my sort
Whose life is fated to be short.
At night I laid me on the round,
In robe of buffalo wrapped round . . .
'Twas strange that I should sleep so sound.

The farmer man I seldom saw;
I pierced my eggs and sucked them raw;
Sweet mil refreshed my ravaged maw.
So slowly days and weeks went by,
And always I would wonder why
I did not die. . . I did not die.

Thus brooding on my grievous lot
The world of men I fast forgot.
And in the wildwood friends I sought.
The brook bright melodies would sing,
The groves with feathered rapture ring,
And bring me strange, sweet comforting. . . .

Then all at once I knew that I
Miraculously would not die:
When doctors fail let Nature try.





Excellent thread Sancho panza


willie.
 
I love this poem. If you saw my house, you'd understand why!!!!!!
I have the same aversion to ironing. My mother bought us a sign:
My house was clean last week. Sorry you missed it.
 
FEEL ME

When apprehension and worry fill your moment,

Feel me, I will sooth you.

And when the brightest lights you see shine dark,

Feel me, I will guide you.

When you heart mourns for joys forgotten,

Feel me, I will lighten you.

And when every step you take seems pointless,

Feel me, I will push you.

When the thought of one more day alone scares you,

Feel me, I will touch you.

And when you can take no more and cry my name,

Feel me, I’ll be with you.

kevinfitzgerald
 
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