Poet of the Day

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Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born

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This mortal body of a thousand days
Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
My pulse is warm with thine old barley-bree,
My head is light with pledging a great soul,
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,
Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;
Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,
Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er,--
Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,--
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,--
O smile among the shades, for this is fame!

John Keats b 31st October 1795

wiki wrote:John Keats was the last born of the English Romantic poets and, at 25, the youngest to die. Along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, he was one of the key figures in the second generation of the Romantic movement, despite the fact that his work had been in publication for only four years before his death. During his life, his poems were not generally well received by critics; however, his reputation grew and he held significant posthumous influence on many later poets, including Alfred Tennyson and Wilfred Owen.

The poetry of Keats is characterised by sensual imagery, most notably in the series of odes. Today his poems and letters are considered as among the most popular and analysed in English literature.
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The Midnight Skaters

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The hop-poles stand in cones,
The icy pond lurks under,
The pole-tops steeple to the thrones
Of stars, sound gulfs of wonder;
But not the tallest thee, 'tis said,
Could fathom to this pond's black bed.
Then is not death at watch
Within those secret waters?
What wants he but to catch
Earth's heedless sons and daughters?
With but a crystal parapet
Between, he has his engines set.

Then on, blood shouts, on, on,
Twirl, wheel and whip above him,
Dance on this ball-floor thin and wan,
Use him as though you love him;
Court him, elude him, reel and pass,
And let him hate you through the glass.

Edmund Blunden b 1st November 1896

wiki wrote:Edmund Charles Blunden, MC was an English poet, author and critic. Like his friend Siegfried Sassoon, he wrote of his experiences in World War I in both verse and prose. For most of his career, Blunden was also a reviewer for English publications and an academic in Tokyo and later Hong Kong. He ended his career as Professor of Poetry at the University of Oxford.
There's a lot more information about him at Poemhunter.
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The Covenanter's Lament

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Sorry folks, I missed this one yesterday.

1. There's nae covenant noo, lassie
There's nae covenant noo
The Solemn League and Covenant
Are a' broken through.
There nae Renwick noo, lassie,
There nae guid Cargill,
Nor holly Sabbath preaching
Upon the Martyr's hill.

2. It's naething but a sword, lassie,
A bluidy, bluidy ane;
Waving owre puir Scotland
For her rebellious sin.
Scotland's a' wrang, lassie
Scotland's a' wrang;
It's neither tae the hill nor glen,
Lassie, we daur gang.

3. The Martyr's hill's forsaken,
In simmer's dusk sae calm;
There's nae gathering now, lassie;
Tae sing the e'enin' psalm.
But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie,
Aboon the warrior's cairn;
And the martyr sou' will sleep, lassie
Aneath the wavin fern.

Robert Allan b 4th November 1774
http://www.rampantscotland.com/ wrote:Robert Allan was a friend and companion of Robert Tannahill, was born at Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire, November 4, 1774. Inheriting a taste for music, he early evinced talent in the composition of song, which was afterwards fostered by the encouragement of the poet Tannahill. Like Tannahill, his occupation was that of a weaver (in Allan's case, muslin) in his native place and many of his best songs were composed at the loom. A number of them he contributed to the Scottish Minstrel, published by R. A. Smith. Several of Allan's songs also appeared in the Harp of Renfrewshire.
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Remember, remember the Fifth of November

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Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
the Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, t’was his intent to blow up King and Parliament.

Three score barrels were laid below to prove old England’s overthrow;
By God’s mercy he was catch’d with a dark lantern and lighted match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Hip hip hoorah!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.

A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.

Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.

Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.

Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah hoorah!

anon. b 5th November
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Re: Poet of the Day

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I'm not surprised that that bloke Anon wrote that. I wouldn't want my name at the bottom of it either.

By the way, is the Pope Catholic by any chance?
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The Spiders

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Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November, 2000

My world is like a chamber, narrow, –
It’s very low, very small.
In four its corners sit four fellows –
Four spiders, diligent in all.

They are all fat, adroit, and dirty,
And always spin and spin the web…
And it is awful – their portly,
Monotonous and even step.

With four their webs, when they were ready,
They spun the immense one, at last.
I watch their fat backs’ movement, steady,
In darkness of the stinking dust.

My eyes – under the webbing’s level:
It’s gray, and soft, and sticky, yet.
And they are glad with gladness, evil, --
Four spiders, fat.

Zinaida Gippius b 8th November 1869
Dictionary of Literary Biography wrote:Zinaida Gippius was a formative figure among members of the progressive Russian intelligentsia at the turn of the twentieth century. She distinguished herself as a poet, playwright, fiction writer, essayist, memoirist, and critic. Her activities in the Religious and Philosophical Society in St. Petersburg and the literary soirées that she organized--first in St. Petersburg and later in emigration in Paris--enhanced her fame in Russian literary circles. She brought up new ideas, took an active part in lively exchanges of opinion, and played a fundamental role in the religious renaissance of her country. For Gippius, the eternal properties of art were love of God, Christian ethics, spiritual elation, and religious transports. Art, she claimed, may promote beauty, refinement, morality, and religious thought. It reveals the Divine Spirit; in it, the Divine Word assumes a human image. The purpose of art, therefore, is to promote the moral and spiritual development of human beings.
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First Day at School

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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 name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there's puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

Roger McGough b 9th November 1937
wiki wrote:Roger McGough was born in Litherland in the north of Liverpool, the city with which he is firmly associated. He was a pupil at St Mary's College in Crosby with Sociologist and broadcaster, Laurie Taylor , before going on to study French at the University of Hull at a time when Philip Larkin was the librarian there. Returning to Merseyside in the early 1960s, he worked as a French teacher and, with John Gorman, organised arts events. After meeting Mike McGear the trio formed The Scaffold, working the Edinburgh Festival until they signed to Parlophone records in 1966. ...he was also responsible for much of the humorous dialogue in The Beatles' animated film, Yellow Submarine, although he did not receive an on-screen credit. At about the same time a selection of his poems was published, along with work from Adrian Henri and Brian Patten, in a best-selling paperback volume of verse entitled The Mersey Sound ... in 1978, McGough appeared in All You Need Is Cash, a mockumentary detailing the career of a Beatles-like group called The Rutles; McGough's introduction takes so long that he is only asked one question ("Did you know the Rutles?" to which McGough cheerfully responds "Oh yes") before the documentary is forced to move along to other events.
One of McGough's more unusual compositions was created in 1981, when he co-wrote an "electronic poem" called Now Press Return with the programmer Richard Warner for inclusion with the Welcome Tape of the BBC Micro home computer.
McGough won a Cholmondeley Award in 1998, and was awarded the CBE in June 2004. He holds an honorary MA from Nene College of Further Education; was awarded an honorary degree from Roehampton University in 2006; as well as an honorary doctorate from the University of Liverpool on 3 July 2006. He was Fellow of Poetry at Loughborough University (1973-5) and Honorary Professor at Thames Valley University (1993).
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When Gassy Thompson Struck It Rich

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He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour
Just to invent a fancy style
To spread the celebration paint
So it would show at least a mile.

Some things they did I will not tell.
They're not quite proper for a rhyme.
But I will say Yim Yonson Swede
Did sure invent a sunflower time.

One thing they did that I can tell
And not offend the ladies here:—
They took a goat to Simp's Saloon
And made it take a bath in beer.

That enterprise took management.
They broke a wash-tub in the fray.
But mister goat was bathed all right
And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say.

They wore girls' pink straw hats to church
And clucked like hens. They surely did.
They bought two hotel frying pans
And in them down the mountain slid.

They went to Denver in good clothes,
And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake,
And cut about like jumping-jacks,
And ordered seven-dollar steak.

They had the waiters whirling round
Just sweeping up the smear and smash.
They tried to buy the State-house flag.
They showed the Janitor the cash.

And old Dan Tucker on a toot,
Or John Paul Jones before the breeze,
Or Indians eating fat fried dog,
Were not as happy babes as these.

One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek
With cheerful swears the two awoke.
The Swede had twenty cents, all right.
But Gassy Thompson was clean broke.

Vachel Lindsay b 10th November 1879
wiki wrote:Nicholas Vachel Lindsay was an American poet. He is considered the father of modern singing poetry, as he referred to it, in which verses are meant to be sung or chanted. His numerous correspondences with the poet Yeats detail his intentions to revive the musical qualities in poetry as had been practiced by the ancient Greeks. Because of his use of American Midwest themes he also became known as the "Prairie Troubador."
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Written at an Inn at Henley

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To thee, fair Freedom! I retire,
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot, or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champagne;
Such Freedom crowns it, at an inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,
I fly from Falsehood's specious grin;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings, at an inn.

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lackeys else might hope to win;
It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me Freedom, at an inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome -- at an inn.

William Shenstone b 13th November 1714
www.poemhunter.com wrote:Born in 1714 in Halesowen (now Worcestershire) England living at the family home 'The Leasowes'. Halesowen, which, up to the early years of the 18th century was in part of Shropshire. He was educated at Solihull Grammar School, where he met and became firm friends with the future poet Richard Jago, before going on to study at Pembroke College, Oxford, but without taking a degree. On inheriting 'The Leasowes' he spent much time and money on landscaping the estate.
He was a poet of diverse taste, his father recognising his talent when a young boy, had strived to send his son to Oxford to study theology but William showed no real interest, preferring poetry, odes, elegies, ballads and correspondence of which he was particularly proud.
Shenstone's work is somewhat self-conscious and pretty and is scarcely remembered today, with the possible exception of the pastoral poem The Schoolmistress (1742), written in the style of Edmund Spenser. This was praised by Dr. Johnson and Thomas Gray, the latter's Elegy written in a country churchyard (1751) being in a similar style.
William Shenstone died in 1763.
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Old Highland woman (1988)

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She sits all day by the fire.
How long is it since she opened the door
and stepped outside, confusing
the scuffling hens and the collie
dreaming of sheep?
Her walking days are over.

She has come here through centuries
of Gaelic labour and loves
and rainy funerals. Her people
are assembled in her bones.
She's their summation. Before her time
has almost no meaning.

When neighbours call
she laughs a wicked cackle
with love in it, as she listens
to the sly bristle of gossip,
relishing the life in it,
relishing the malice, with her hands
lying in her lap like holy psalms
that once had a meaning for her, that once
were noble with tunes
she used to sing long ago.

Norman MacCaig b 14th November 1910
Scottish Poetry Library wrote:Norman MacCaig was born in 1910 in Edinburgh, of a lowland father and a highland mother. Educated at the Royal High School and the University of Edinburgh, where he studied classics, he worked for many years as a primary school teacher.

A conscientious objector during the Second World War, his first two books were published in the 1940s, though he later disowned them. From Riding Lights in 1955 to Voice Over in 1988 he published fourteen collections of poetry.

He was appointed Fellow in Creative Writing at Edinburgh in 1967, and in 1970 he became a reader in poetry at the University of Stirling.

For most of his life, MacCaig divided his time between Edinburgh and Assynt in the north-west Highlands: the landscape of the latter in particular is a recurring theme of his poetry. He died in Edinburgh in January 1996.
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Re: First Day at School

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SRD wrote:A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
...
[/quote]
Freakishly, I did this one with the first years on the 4th of November. They really liked it.
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Uncouplings

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There is no I in teamwork
but there is a two maker

there is no I in together
but there is a got three
a get to her

the I in relationship
is the heart I slip on
a lithe prison

in all communication
we count on a mimic
(I am not uncomic)

our listening skills
are silent killings

there is no we in marriage
but a grim area

there is an I in family
also my fail

Craig Arnold b 16th November 1967
wiki wrote:Arnold taught poetry at the University of Wyoming. His poems have appeared in anthologies including The Best American Poetry 1998 and The Bread Loaf Anthology of New American Poets, and in literary journals including Poetry, The Paris Review, Denver Quarterly, Barrow Street, New Republic and Yale Review. Arnold grew up in the United States, Europe and Asia. He received his B.A. in English from Yale University in 1990 and his PhD in creative writing from the University of Utah in 2001. He was also a musician, and performed as a member of the band Iris.

On April 27, 2009, Arnold went missing on the small volcanic island of Kuchinoerabujima, Japan. He went for a solo hike to explore an active volcano on the island and never returned to the inn where he was staying.
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Re: Poet of the Day

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Clever but maybe a bit pretentious.
Yes this is the real "Little John" (or it could be "colin")
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Beyond Harm

Post by SRD »

A week after my father died
suddenly I understood
his fondness for me was safe—nothing
could touch it. In those last months,
his face would sometimes brighten when I would
enter the room, and his wife said
that once, when he was half asleep,
he smiled when she said my name. He respected
my spunk—when they tied me to the chair, that time,
they were tying up someone he respected, and when
he did not speak, for weeks, I was one of the
beings to whom he was not speaking,
someone with a place in his life. The last
week he even said it, once,
by mistake. I walked into his room, and said “How
are you,” and he said, “I love you
too.” From then on, I had
that word to lose. Right up to the last
moment, I could make some mistake, offend him, and with
one of his old mouths of disgust he could re-
skew my life. I did not think of it,
I was helping to take care of him,
wiping his face and watching him.
But then, a while after he died,
I suddenly thought, with amazement, he will always
love me now, and I laughed—he was dead, dead!

Sharon Olds b 19th November 1942
www.poetryfoundation.org wrote:Sharon Olds is one of contemporary poetry’s leading voices. Winner of several prestigious awards, including the National Book Critics Circle Award, Olds is known for writing intensely personal, emotionally scathing poetry which graphically depicts family life as well as global political events.
I love the sting in the tail of this.
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Re: Poet of the Day

Post by Little John »

I know that poem. I just read the one about the inn. I liked that too.
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