JCpoetryblog

Without question, the magpie is my favourite bird.  With a Latin name which means 'the flautist' the family which lives in our garden entertain us morning and evening with their beautiful carolling. Denis Glover, the New Zealand poet, makes an attempt at spelling out their call in this sad poem. THE MAGPIES When Tom and Elizabeth took the farm The bracken made their bed and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle The magpies said Tom's hand was strong to the plough and Elizabeth's lips were red and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle The magpies said Year in year out they worked while the pines grew overhead and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle The magpies said But all the beautiful crops soon went to the mortgage man instead and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle The magpies said Elizabeth is dead now (it's long ago) Old Tom's gone light in the head and Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle The magpies...

Abraham Lincoln was shot on April 14, 1865 and died the following morning.  There was a great public show of grief and thousands wrote poems which they sent to their local newspapers.  The New York Herald complained that if they printed all they had received, there would be no room for news. The Chicago Tribune, in three days, received hundreds of poems, including 160 which began with the lines 'Toll, Toll, ye mourning bells' or "Mourn, mourn, ye tolling bells. Walt Whitman's tribute to Lincoln was not published until November of that year.  It has entered popular culture through being read during a poetry class conducted by Robin Williams in the movie Dead Poets' Society. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!  O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!...

On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785 Wee , sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie , O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, Wi’ murdering pattle ! I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion An’ fellow-mortal ! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave ‘S a sma’ requet; I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, An’ never miss’t! Thy wee-bit housie , too, in ruin! Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, O’ foggage green! An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuing, Baith snell an’ keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary Winter comin fast, An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cr...

Allan Ahlberg is a well-known children's author. This poem is Please, Mrs Butler. Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps copying my work, Miss. What shall I do? Go and sit in the hall, dear. Go and sit in the sink. Take your books on the roof, my lamb. Do whatever you think. Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps taking my rubber, Miss. What shall I do? Keep it in your hand, dear. Hide it up your vest. Swallow it if you like, my love. Do what you think is best. Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps calling me rude names, miss. What shall I do? Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear. Run away to sea. Do whatever you can, my flower. But  don’t ask me .

Simon Armitage who is the current UK Poet Laureate has written a poem about coronavirus.  He references the outbreak of bubonic plague in the village of Eyam when a bale of cloth from London brought fleas which infected the villagers.  The inhabitants, famously and unselfishly, sealed themselves off from the rest of England, stopping the spreading of the disease. And I couldn’t escape the waking dream of infected fleas in the warp and weft of soggy cloth by the tailor’s hearth in ye olde Eyam. Then couldn’t un-see the Boundary Stone, that cock-eyed dice with its six dark holes, thimbles brimming with vinegar wine purging the plagued coins. Which brought to mind the sorry story of Emmott Syddall and Rowland Torre, star-crossed lovers on either side of the quarantine line whose wordless courtship spanned the river till she came no longer. But slept again, and dreamt this time of the exiled yaksha sending word to his lost wife on a passing cloud, a cloud that follow...

THIS IS JUST TO SAY I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

by Langston Hughes What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

Not all of Robert Burns' poetry is beautiful but this little snippet from Tam o' Shanter is a good example of how sensitive he could be. But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever;

I find the sentiments of this poem by William Blake rather disquieting, like the modern films where the 'hero' takes disproportionate revenge on the baddies.  Like the poem the films culminate in the death of the foe. In the movies, we're expected to cheer but Blake doesn't signal how we should feel. I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end.  I was angry with my foe:  I told it not, my wrath did grow.  And I waterd it in fears,  Night & morning with my tears:  And I sunned it with smiles,  And with soft deceitful wiles.  And it grew both day and night.  Till it bore an apple bright.  And my foe beheld it shine,  And he knew that it was mine.  And into my garden stole,  When the night had veil'd the pole;  In the morning glad I see;  My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play. And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast; They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that— We’d put up even money now with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell; It rumbled through the...

It's not a love poem as Keats or Byron would know it but this little delight from Ogden Nash has something about it which is authentic. Tin Wedding Whistle by Ogden Nash Though you know it anyhow  Listen to me, darling, now,  Proving what I need not prove  How I know I love you, love.  Near and far, near and far,  I am happy where you are;  Likewise I have never larnt  How to be it where you aren't.  Far and wide, far and wide,  I can walk with you beside;  Furthermore, I tell you what,  I sit and sulk where you are not.  Visitors remark my frown  Where you're upstairs and I am down,  Yes, and I'm afraid I pout  When I'm indoors and you are out;  But how contentedly I view  Any room containing you.  In fact I care not where you be,  Just as long as it's with me.  In all your absences I glimpse  Fire and flood and trolls and imps.  Is your train a minute slothful?  I go...

I found a website which offered to write a poem, in the form of a haiku, using several words which I entered.  This is the result: Dismal wintertime A female, snuggly stork chants above the bandaid. It's pretty awful, but if I replace a couple of words, we might be on to something. Dismal wintertime A female, watchful stork chants Above the snowdrift.

I often think about these words from Shakespeare so it shouldn't surprise me how often I see them referred to in other contexts.  You can always depend on Shakespeare to produce those timeless phrases which other writers rely on. Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,  And then is heard no more. It is a tale  Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,  Signifying nothing.

Another poem, set to music, which has stood the test of time is Robert Burns' classic which always brings tears to one's eyes. O my Luve is like a red, red rose     That’s newly sprung in June;  O my Luve is like the melody     That’s sweetly played in tune.  So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,     So deep in luve am I;  And I will luve thee still, my dear,     Till a’ the seas gang dry.  Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,     And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;  I will love thee still, my dear,     While the sands o’ life shall run.  And fare thee weel, my only luve!     And fare thee weel awhile!  And I will come again, my luve,     Though it were ten thousand mile.

A poem which has stood the test of time, mainly as it has been set to music. TO CELIA Drink to me only with thine eyes,      And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss within the cup,      And I'll not ask for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise      Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup,      I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath,      Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope, that there      It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe,      And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,      Not of itself, but thee. [2]

When I was teaching primary school, Raymond Briggs was one of my most valued resources.  His illustrated stories: The Snowman, Father Christmas and Fungus the Bogeyman were always there, close to hand. Briggs is now 85 and has just published a book with several poems on aging.  I particularly like this one. FUTURE GHOSTS Looking round this house, what will they say, the future ghosts? There must have been some barmy old bloke here, long-haired, artsy-fartsy type, did pictures for kiddy books or some such tripe. You should have seen the stuff he stuck up in that attic! Snowman this and snowman that, tons and tons of tat. Three skips it took, and a whopping bonfire out the back. Thank God it’s gone, and he’s gone, too. He must have been a nutter through and through.