JCpoetryblog

Michael Rosen secures his place in this collection on the strength of his classic story, We're Going on a Bear Hunt.  There was a memorable wet day in Mittagong when Madeleine, aged about 4, and I went searching for bears.  We found long grass, mud and even a culvert under the road which made a very satisfactory cave. We're going on a bear hunt. We're going to catch a big one. What a beautiful day! We're not scared. Uh-uh! Grass! Long wavy grass. We can't go over it. We can't go under it. Oh no! We've got to go through it! Swishy swashy! Swishy swashy! Swishy swashy! We're going on a bear hunt. We're going catch a big one. What a beautiful day! We're not scared. Uh-uh! A river! A deep cold river. We can't go over it. We can't go under it. Oh no! We've got to go through it! Splash splosh! Splash splosh! Splash splosh!  ..... Rosen's other poem...

Republicans like me might prefer to do away with hereditary titles and use a person's real name, even if they are one of the most celebrated poets in the English language, so I'll refer to this poet by the more appropriate name of George Gordon.  George was a prolific writer and something of a rogue.  London's Sun newspaper ran an article in 2008 entitled "Lord Byron's Life of Bling, Booze and Groupie Sex" but I haven't bothered to read it. His best-known poem is this one. She walks in beauty, like the night  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  And all that’s best of dark and bright  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;  Thus mellowed to that tender light  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.  One shade the more, one ray the less,  Had half impaired the nameless grace  Which waves in every raven tress,  Or softly lightens o’er her face;  Where thoughts serenely sweet express,  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.  And...

Dorothea was born in 1885 in Sydney and was a contemporary of Hilary Lofting and Beatrice Osborn, Marilyn's grandparents.  They would have all been active in the Sydney literary scene in the 1920s and 30s. Her most famous poem, written in England during a period of homesickness, is My Country.  Usually only the second verse is quoted. The love of field and coppice, Of green and shaded lanes. Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins, Strong love of grey-blue distance Brown streams and soft dim skies I know but cannot share it, My love is otherwise. I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, Of ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her beauty and her terror - The wide brown land for me! A stark white ring-barked forest All tragic to the moon, The sapphire-misted mountains, The hot gold hush of noon. Green tangle of the brushes, Where lithe lianas coil, And orchids deck the tree-tops And fern...

Ted Hughes, Poet Laureate, is regarded as one of the most important poets of the 20th century but, for me, he is known only as the author of The Chief Inspector of Holes.  This was one of the best-loved poems from my days at Chakola, often quoted during evening poetry-sharing sessions. Some fathers work at the office, others work at the store, Some operate great cranes and build skyscrapers galore, Some work in canning factories counting green peas into cans, Some drive all night in huge and thundering removal vans. But mine has the strangest job of the lot, My father's the Chief Inspector of - What? O don't tell the mice, don't tell the moles, My father's the Chief Inspector of HOLES. It's a work of the highest importance because you never know What's in a hole, what fearful thing is creeping from below. Perhaps it's a hole to the ocean and will soon gush water in tons, Or maybe it leads to a vast cave full of gold and skeletons. Though a hole might seem to...

Like Pam Ayres, Victoria Wood writes comic performance poems.  They're best enjoyed in a group of friends, performed by a  rather saucy female artiste in the English Music Hall tradition. I once saw the Ballad of Freda and Barry performed as a duologue by a rather pompous Rotary District Governor and his corseted wife.  His popularity sky-rocketed after this revelation. Freda and Barry sat one night The sky was clear, the stars were bright The wind was soft, the moon was up Freda drained her cocoa cup. She licked her lips she felt sublime! She switched off Gardener's Question Time Barry cringed in fear and dread As Freda grabbed his tie and said: Let's do it, let's do it, do it while the mood is right! I'm feeling, appealing, I've really got an appetite. I'm on fire with desire- I could handle half the tenors in a male voice choir. Let's do it, let's do it tonight! But he said: I can't do it, I can't do it, I don't believe in too much sex...

Pam Ayres writes and performs very funny poems, although I sometime feel it's her absurd accent and odd faces which draw the laughs.  In her more serious moments, she writes very sensitive verse. Don’t lay me down in some gloomy churchyard shaded by a wall Where the dust of ancient bones has spread dryness over all. Lay me in some leafy loam where, sheltered from the cold Little seeds investigate and tender leaves unfold. There  kindly and affectionately plant a native tree To grow resplendent before God and hold some part of me. The roots will not disturb me as they wend their peaceful way To build the fine and bountiful, from closure and decay. To seek their small requirements so that when their work is done I’ll be tall and standing strongly in the beauty of the Sun.

Apart from a brief flirtation with Under Milkwood while I was at school, I had avoided grappling with Dylan Thomas but, when PM Julia Gillard quoted one of his poems in talking about the death of her father, I thought I should look again.   Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Of course, she turned the quote on its head and said that her father went 'gentle into that good night.'  No matter, the words are beautiful, and the sentiments powerful.  I hope somebody says it about me when the time comes.

I heard Paul Kelly being interviewed on radio the other day and he was talking about the link between song lyrics and traditional poetry.  Of course, being brought up on the music of the 1960s, I don't have much of an appreciation of song lyrics which could be regarded as poetic (where's the poetry in I Wanna Hold Your Hand?), until I started to think about popular music which was more avant garde than The Beatles. I though first of Simon and Garfunkel's and Eric Bogle but perhaps one of the most poetic of modern popular music lyrics is Killing Me Softly, lyrics by Norman Gimbal, sung by Roberta Flack.  I've stripped the lyrics back, removing some of the repetition. I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style And so I came to see him, to listen for a while And there he was, this young boy, a stranger to my eyes Strumming my pain with his fingers  Singing my life with his words Killing me softly with his song I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crow...

Sometimes, reading bad poetry can be just as much fun as enjoying the good stuff.  William MacGonagall was several time voted the worst poet in the English language.  He was born in 1825 to Irish parents and lived most of his life in Dundee, making his living as a weaver, until taking the plunge and declaring himself a full-time poet.  He understood that poetry should rhyme but had no concept of scansion. His best-known poem is The Tay Bridge Disaster but I particularly like The Famous Tay Whale, perhaps because it features fishing boats from Gourdon where my grandfather was born.  In the 1880s it is conceivable that there was a Christie in one of the boats. The Famous Tay Whale BY  KNIGHT OF THE WHITE ELEPHANT OF BURMAH WILLIAM MCGONAGALL ’Twas in the month of December, and in the year 1883,  That a monster whale came to Dundee,  Resolved for a few days to sport and play,  And devour the small fishes in the silvery Tay.  So the monster whale...

Ogden Nash wrote humorous poetry with interesting rhyme.  Although I appreciate more sentimental verse as well, I find myself drawn particularly to poems which make me smile. Adventures Of Isabel Isabel met an enormous bear, Isabel, Isabel, didn't care; The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous, The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous. The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you, How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you! Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry. Isabel didn't scream or scurry. She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up, Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up. Once in a night as black as pitch Isabel met a wicked old witch. the witch's face was cross and wrinkled, The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled. Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed, I'll turn you into an ugly toad! Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry, Isabel didn't scream or scurry, She showed no rage and she showed no rancor, But she turned the witch into milk and drank her. Isabel me...

When I visited the museum in Liverpool, UK, I was pleased to see a major display on the poetry of Roger McGough.  I discovered he had been a member of The Scaffold in the 1960s and involved in their hit song Lily the Pink.  I love his poem about The First Day at School. A millionbillionwillion miles from home Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?) Why are they all so big, other children? So noisy? So much at home they Must have been born in uniform Lived all their lives in playgrounds Spent the years inventing games That don't let me in. Games That are rough, that swallow you up. And the railings. All around, the railings. Are they to keep out wolves and monsters? Things that carry off and eat children? Things you don't take sweets from? Perhaps they're to stop us getting out Running away from the lessins. Lessin. What does a lessin look like? Sounds small and slimy. They keep them in the glassrooms. Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine. I wish I could remember my nam...

When I was younger, I thought Spike Milligan was the Messiah but now I realise he was just a very naughty boy with a quirky view of the world.  In many ways, he tried too hard to be seen as eccentric and his writing hasn't stood the test of time.  His best remembered poem is probably this one: On the Ning Nang Nong  Where the Cows go Bong!  and the monkeys all say BOO!  There's a Nong Nang Ning  Where the trees go Ping!  And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.  On the Nong Ning Nang  All the mice go Clang  And you just can't catch 'em when they do!  So its Ning Nang Nong  Cows go Bong!  Nong Nang Ning  Trees go ping  Nong Ning Nang  The mice go Clang  What a noisy place to belong  is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!  However, I think I like his poem about Granny better. Through every nook and every cranny The wind blew in on poor old Granny Around her knees, into each ear (And up her nose as well, I...

When I decided to start this blog I had no substantial plan in mind.  I thought I would record some poems I remember from childhood, then list others as they occurred to me.  Having written about Lewis Carroll the other day, I thought I should look at Spike Milligan today as another poet who wrote in the nonsense genre, but my subconscious mind is insistent that I need to get down another poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson.  I don't know why Tennyson looms so large in my mind; I wouldn't regard him as a favourite by any means, but I find his words rolling around in my mind more than any other poet. Anyway, here is Tennyson again: THE splendour falls on castle walls  And snowy summits old in story:  The long light shakes across the lakes,  And the wild cataract leaps in glory.  Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,  Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.  O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,  And thinner, clearer, farther goi...

Whole treatises have been written about the meta-physical depth of Jabberwocky, but I've always enjoyed the clumsy music of the words and the feeling that there is meaning there that I don't need to understand. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. 'Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!' He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood a while in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One two! One two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. 'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! Oh frabjous day! Call...

Banjo Paterson is one of the best-loved Australian poets.  His poems capture the larrikinism and independence which Australians like to claim as typical of our race.  My favourite poem from Banjo Paterson is Clancy of the Overflow but Gazza from Grong Grong has claimed that as his own, so I'll fall back on The Man from Snowy River.  It's a long poem but deserves to be quoted in full. There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around  That the colt from old Regret had got away,  And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,  So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.  All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far  Had mustered at the homestead overnight,  For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,  And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.  There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,  The old man with his hair as white as s...

I don't have a great deal of knowledge of American poets as my schooling was very much based on the British tradition, but no one could miss the significance of Robert Frost.  Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening:                The woods are lovely, dark and deep,                But I have promises to keep,                And miles to go before I sleep,                 And miles to go before I sleep.  and The Road Less Travelled are true classics. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;  Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And b...