National Poetry Day

[ikklecob]

Whilst we are being a little nostalgic what were or are your favourite poems
This is mine by Rudyard Kipling. Loved it as a child and it still evokes images now.


IF you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.

Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.
Laces for a lady; letters for a spy,
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again - and they'll be gone next day !

If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining's wet and warm - don't you ask no more !

If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,
You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you " pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,
Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been !

Knocks and footsteps round the house - whistles after dark -
You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie
They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by !

'If You do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,
You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood -
A present from the Gentlemen, along 'o being good !

Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by


like this reading of it as well
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pELNBp6DBh8

[Fi]

great poem! I remember reading that one. My favourite is 'I leave this at your ear' by WS Graham:

I leave this at your ear for when you wake,
A creature in its abstract cage asleep.
Your dreams blindfold you by the light they make.

The owl called from the naked-woman tree
As I came down by the Kyle farm to hear
Your house silent by the speaking sea.

I have come late but I have come before
Later with slaked steps from stone to stone
To hope to find you listening for the door.

I stand in the ticking room. My dear, I take
A moth kiss from your breath. The shore gulls cry.
I leave this at your ear for when you wake.

written for his future wife.

[Debbie]

I'll cross my fingers and try to repost. This morning my whole bloomin' internet went down rude!

My favorite poem is by Shel Silverstein, first read to me by my 5th grade teacher

Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Too
from the book "Where the Sidewalk Ends" (1974)

Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too
Went for a ride in a flying shoe.
"Hooray!"
"What fun!"
"It's time we flew!"
Said Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.

Ickle was captain, and Pickle was crew
And Tickle served coffee and mulligan stew
As higher
And higher
And higher they flew,
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.

Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too,
Over the sun and beyond the blue.
"Hold on!"
"Stay in!"
"I hope we do!"
Cried Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.

Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle too
Never returned to the world they knew,
And nobody
Knows what's
Happened to
Dear Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.

[colmworthdales]

Hardly a poem but another Kipling quote I often repeat to a friend grieving over a much loved dog that has recently died:-

Brother or sister, I bid you beware
of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

[dalesnfellfan]

This is my favourite from childhood, a bit long I'm afraid, the poems should be read with a Lancashire accent for best effect

The Lion & Albert by Edgar Marriott

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool
That's noted for fresh air and fun
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert their son.

A grand little lad was their Albert
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
'E'd a stick with a 'orse's 'ead 'andle
The finest that Woolworths could sell.

They didn't think much to the ocean
The waves they were fiddlin' and small
There was no wrecks... nobody drowned
'Fact, nothing to laugh at, at all.

So, seeking for further amusement
They paid and went into the zoo
Where they'd lions and tigers and camels
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big lion called Wallace
His nose it were all covered in scars
He lay with a somnolent posture
With the side of his face to the bars.

Now Albert had heard about lions
How they were ferocious and wild
And to see Wallace lying so peaceful
Well... it didn't seem right to the child.

So straight 'way the brave little feller
Not showing a morsel of fear
Took 'is stick with the 'orses 'ead 'andle
And pushed it in Wallaces ear!

You could see that the lion didn't like it
For giving a kind of a roll
He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im
And swallowed the little lad...whole!

The Pa, who had seen the occurrence
And didn't know what to do next
Said, "Mother! Yon lion's 'et Albert"
And Mother said"Eeh, I am vexed!"

So Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Quite rightly, when all's said and done
Complained to the Animal Keeper
That the lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it
He said "what a nasty mishap"
Are you sure its your lad 'es eaten
Pa said "Am I sure? There's 'is cap!"

So the manager had to be sent for
He came and said "What's to do?
Pa said "Yon lion's eaten our Albert
And 'im in his Sunday clothes too."

Then Mother said " Right's right young feller
I think it's a shame and a sin
For a lion to go and eat Albert
And after we've paid to come in."

The manager wanted no trouble
He took out his purse right away
And said "How much to settle the matter"
And Pa said " How much do you usually pay?"

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone
She said "No! someone's got to be summonsed
So that were decided upon.

Round they went to the Police Station
In front of the Magistrate chap
They told 'im what happened to Albert
And proved it by showing his cap.

The magistrate gave his o-pinion
That no one was really to blame
He said he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing
"And thank you Sir kindly" said she
"What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy lions? Not me!"

I loved hearing this monologue recited by Stanley Holloway on radio about 55 years ago and then latter on television, in black and white off course.

[dalesnfellfan]

And this is The Lion and Albert part 2

You've 'eard 'ow young Albert Ramsbottom
In the zoo up at Blackpool one year
With a stick with 'an 'orses 'ead 'andle
Gave a lion a poke in the ear.

The name of the lion was Wallace
The poke in the ear made 'im wild
And before you could say 'Bob's your uncle'
'Ed up and 'ed swallowed the child.

'E were sorry the moment 'e'd done it
With children 'e'd always been chums
And besides 'e'd no teeth in 'is noddle
And he couldn't chew Albert on t'gums.

But Albert kept kicking and fighting
'Till Wallace arose feeling bad
And felt it were time that he started
To stage a comeback for the lad.

So with is 'ead down in the corner
On 'is front paws 'e started to walk
And 'e coughed and 'e sneezed and 'e gargled
'Til Albert shot out like a cork.

Meanwhile Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
'Ad gone 'ome to tea feeling blue
Ma says " I feel down in the mouth like"
Pa says " Aye! I bet Albert does too.

"Lets look on the bright side" said Father
What can't be 'elped must be endure
Every cloud 'as a silvery lining
And we did 'ave young Albert insured.

A knock at the door came that moment
As Father these kind words did speak
'Twas the man from t'Prudential
'Ed called for their tuppence per person per week.

"Excuse 'im for laughin" said Mother
"But really things 'appen so strange
Our Albert's been ate by a lion
You've got to pay us for a change."

Said the young feller from the Prudential
"Now, come, come, let's understand this,
You don't mean to say that you've lost 'im?"
Ma says "Oh no! We know where 'e is.

When the young man 'ad 'eard all the details
A bag from 'is pocket 'e drew
And 'e paid them with interest and bonus
The sum of nine pounds four and two.

Pa had scarcely got 'is 'and on the money
When a face at the window they see
And Mother says "Eh! look it's Albert"
And Father says "Aye, it would be"

Young Albert came in all excited
And started 'is story to give
And Pa said " I'll never trust lions
Again as long as I live."

The young feller from the Prudential
To pick up the money began
And Father says " Eeh! Just a moment
Don't be in a hurry, young man."

Then giving young Albert a shilling,
He said "Pop off back to the zoo
Ere's your stick with the 'orses head andle
Go and see what the tigers can do."

[mikea]

How's about this - Autumn read by Richard Burton written by John Claire
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICtG-bBCb0g&sns=em

And fit those wh prefer to read it

    Autumn

      1
I love the fitfull gusts that shakes
 The casement all the day
And from the mossy elm tree takes
 The faded leaf away
Twirling it by the window-pane
With thousand others down the lane

      2
I love to see the shaking twig
 Dance till the shut of eve
The sparrow on the cottage rig
 Whose chirp would make believe

That spring was just now flirting by
In summers lap with flowers to lie

      3
I love to see the cottage smoke
 Curl upwards through the naked trees
The pigeons nestled round the coat
 On dull November days like these
The cock upon the dung-hill crowing
The mill sails on the heath agoing

      4
The feather from the ravens breast
 Falls on the stubble lea
The acorns near the old crows nest
 Fall pattering down the tree
The grunting pigs that wait for all
Scramble and hurry where they fall

[mikea]

Oops posted the wrong one - I haven,t quite Sussed this modern technology


Autumn
BY JOHN CLARE
The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there

[cadeby]

A few sound-bites from some of my personal favourites, all of which have meaning in my life :

J.R.R Tolkein :

"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost"


Robert Frost : The Road Not Taken

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I ;
I took the one less travelled..."


Famous one by Dylan Thomas :

"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light"


A.A.Milne, Winnie the Pooh

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."


Tolkein again, but a gift from my Dad :

"Take the hidden paths that run,
West of the Moon, East of the Sun."

[Fi]

Love the Winnie the Pooh one.....

[yanny]

We used to sing the one about the horses feet at primary school, it was a mysterious sounding song, I loved it wonder if anyone else has heard the song version? It was a lot of fun, beat maths lessons any day

[merlinalison]

I'm another fan of Kipling although the whole dog one (below) always makes me want to cry

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find - it's your own affair, -
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!),
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone - wherever it goes - for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent,
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long -
So why in - Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

But I also love Warning ( When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening BY ROBERT FROST (which ends:

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 Fidele's dirge, and Drake's Drum and

IN fact there are too many to list but I'm really glad you posted this - I hadn't realised that one of my other favourites The way through the woods is also Kipling (They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.)

[dalesnfellfan]

I like the one about the dog, so true

[maggie]

Yes, 'Warning' for me too, and the Kiplings and so, so many.

Two favorites that haven't been mentioned yet are Alfred Noyse's 'The Highwayman'

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

and 'The Host of the Air' by W.B. Yeats

'O'Driscoll drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.

And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.

The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O'Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;

But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

Sorry they're both long ones and, I've just realised, rather 'spooky', how appropriate for Halloween!