General Chat

I'd like to see a tankcome down the stalls, Lurching to ragtime tunes and home sweet home Then ther'd be no more songs in music halls to mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume. Sigfried Sassoon a w.w.1 war poet, also worth reading is his 'memoirs of a foxhunting man'.

Dave just like you, IF, is my favourite, one of the best poems written, it's a pity everyone doesn't live there life by it.

Lunar, I love Wordsworth. Here is one of my favourites: A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; --Her beauty made me glad. 'Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?' 'How many? Seven in all,' she said And wondering looked at me. 'And where are they? I pray you tell.' She answered, 'Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. 'Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.' 'You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.' Then did the little Maid reply, 'Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.' 'You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.' 'Their graves are green, they may be seen,' The little Maid replied, 'Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. 'My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. 'And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. 'The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. 'So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. 'And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.' 'How many are you, then,' said I, 'If they two are in heaven?' Quick was the little Maid's reply, 'O Master! we are seven.' 'But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!' 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, 'Nay, we are seven!' 1798. I think this one is very sweet :-)

I wandered loney as a cloud.......................right onto your thread Lucia..................love poetry. Lin

I like Wordsworths :'I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD' And Miracle on St David's Day by Gillian Clarke An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed with daffodils. The sun treads the path among cedars and enormous oaks. It might be a country house, guests strolling, the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs. I am reading poetry to the insane. An old woman, interrupting, offers as many buckets of coal as I need. A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic on a good day, they tell me later. In a cage of first March sun, a woman sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling. In her neat clothes, the woman is absent. A big mild man is tenderly led to his chair. He has never spoken. His labourer's hands on his knees, he rocks gently to the rhythm of the poems. I read to their presences, absences, to the big, dumb, labouring man as he rocks. He is suddenly standing, silently, huge and mild but I feel afraid. Like slow movement of spring water or the first bird of the year in the breaking darkness, the labourer's voice recites 'The Daffodils'. The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect. Outside the daffodils are still as wax, a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables unspoken, their creams and yellows still. Forty years ago, in a Valleys school, the class recited poetry by rote. Since the dumbness of misery fell he has remembered there was a music of speech, and that he once had something to say. When he's done, before the applause, we observe the flowers silence. A thrush sings, and the daffodils are flame.

I love that Dave - great poem :-)

If If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream and not make dreams your master; If you can think and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And which is more you'll be a Man, my son! Rudyard Kipling My favourite Lucia and I love poetry! Davexx

I love poetry. Who is your favourite poet? :-)