The poet laureate of England talked about murdering Jews on the West Bank.
quote by Steven T. Katz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Norumbega Hall
Not on Penobscot's wooded bank the spires
Of the sought City rose, nor yet beside
The winding Charles, nor where the daily tide
Of Naumkeag's haven rises and retires,
The vision tarried; but somewhere we knew
The beautiful gates must open to our quest,
Somewhere that marvellous City of the West
Would lift its towers and palace domes in view,
And, to! at last its mystery is made known--
Its only dwellers maidens fair and young,
Its Princess such as England's Laureate sung;
And safe from capture, save by love alone,
It lends its beauty to the lake's green shore,
And Norumbega is a myth no more.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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John Masefield He Wrote Long Stories In Rhyme
For many years England's Poet Laureate but that's going back in time
John Masefield he wrote long stories in rhyme
True genius of him none could deny
His great poems to his greatness testify,
In the Literary World John Masefield held in high esteem
Of his era perhaps the poet supreme
As a young man as a deck hand he spent some time at sea
And much of the bigger World out there he did see
His Saltwater Ballads his ticket to fame
And in poetry his became a household name
His last remains in Nature's bosom lay
But his long narrative poems are read and enjoyed today
Far from England's shore by many a Masefield fan
He lives in his poems the great Ledbury man.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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John Masefield Was Much More Than A Poet Laureate
John Masefield was much more than a poet laureate he was indeed a verse maker supreme
His longer poems are surely masterpieces and will live for centuries or so it would seem
From his prolific pen the rhymes kept flowing he kept on penning till the day he died
No doubt about it born to be a wordsmith and greatness of him cannot be denied
John Masefield wrote the poetry of the masses and in his lifetime was famed Worldwide
His 'Reynard The Fox' the greatest hunting poem ever of the hunting people of the English countryside
His other famed longer poems 'The Daffodil Fields' and 'The Everlasting Mercy' and 'Dauber' the boy artsist who died at sea
As well as others are true masterpieces to rhyme to him seemed to come easily
His descriptive powers to say the least amazing it must be true that poets are born not made
For sixty years he was a major poet a literary icon of the wordsmith trade
John Masefield he was Ledbury's greatest poet one might say a manufacturer of rhyme
For many years he was Britain's Poet Laureate until he too lost out to father time
He truly was the poet of the people and poets of his stature as always are rare
He died an old man in his eighty ninth year with England's best he surely does compare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Jewish fundamentalism is teaching that Jews can fight with guns and with civil war, against being relocated off the West Bank, and disobey the orders of their government. That is the call to jihad, to several kinds of jihad.
quote by Arthur Hertzberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Being Poet Laureate made me realize I was capable of a larger voice. There is a more public utterance I can make as a poet.
I was appointed Poet Laureate. It came totally out of the blue because most Poet Laureates had been considerably older than I. It was not something that I even had begun to dream about!
A Man Young And Old: VIII. Summer And Spring
We sat under an old thorn-tree
And talked away the night,
Told all that had been said or done
Since first we saw the light,
And when we talked of growing up
Knew that we'd halved a soul
And fell the one in t'other's arms
That we might make it whole;
Then peter had a murdering look,
For it seemed that he and she
Had spoken of their childish days
Under that very tree.
O what a bursting out there was,
And what a blossoming,
When we had all the summer-time
And she had all the spring!
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Oh England My Lionheart
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Im in your garden, fading fast in your arms.
The soldiers soften, the war is over.
The air raid shelters are blooming clover.
Flapping umbrellas fill the lanes--
My london bridge in rain again.
Oh! england, my lionheart!
Peter pan steals the kids in kensington park.
You read me shakespeare on the rolling thames--
That old river poet that never, ever ends.
Our thumping hearts hold the ravens in,
And keep the tower from tumbling.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
Oh! england, my lionheart!
Dropped from my black spitfire to my funeral barge.
Give me one kiss in apple-blossom.
Give me one wish, and Id be wassailing
In the orchard, my english rose,
Or with my shepherd, wholl bring me home.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We're Jews, my family, and Jews break down into two distinct subcultures: book Jews and money Jews. We were money Jews.
Of the Jews (50 A.D.)
Painter and poet, runner and discus-thrower,
beautiful as Endymion: Ianthis, son of Antony.
From a family on friendly terms with the Synagogue.
"My most valuable days are those
when I give up the pursuit of sensuous beauty,
when I desert the elegant and severe cult of Hellenism,
with its over-riding devotion
to perfectly shaped, corruptible white limbs,
and become the man I would want to remain forever:
son of the Jews, the holy Jews."
A most fervent declaration on his part: "...to remain forever
a son of the Jews, the holy Jews."
But he did not remain anything of the kind.
The Hedonism and Art of Alexandria
kept him as their dedicated son.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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I would love to be the poet laureate of Coney Island.
quote by Thornton Wilder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A poet laureate of adolescent sexuality and middle-age longing.
quote by William A. Henry III
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the Bush Begins to Speak
They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
They'll know us yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
'The leaders that will be', the men of southern destiny,
Are not all found in cities that are builded by the sea;
They learn to love Australia by many a western creek,
They'll know them yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
All ready for the struggle, and waiting for the change,
The army of our future lies encamped beyond the range;
Australia, for her patriots, will not have far to seek;
They'll know her yet in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
We'll find the peace and comfort that our fathers could not find,
Or some shall strike the good old blow that leaves a mark behind.
We'll find the Truth and Liberty our fathers came to seek,
Or let them know in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's the combination of the intimate and the public that I find so exciting about being poet laureate.
The Old Rhyming Poet
In his early eighties his best days long gone
But the gray haired old poet he keeps penning on
Though many see him as of another time
Sixty years as a poet and still writing in rhyme.
Though not seen as a mentor to the young poets of the town
He once was the Regional Poet Laureate and he knew of renown
When rhyme it was popular a long time ago
And his hair was as dark as the wing of a crow.
Not hard to tell he's known a far better day
The old rhyming poet that the years have left gray
It has been more than five decades since he was in his prime
Eventually we all become victims of time.
In time as in life few things do seem to last
And verses that rhyme are now seen as of the past
But to him to stop writing would be living a lie
And he will be a poet till the day that he die.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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People write me from all over the country, asking me, and sometimes even telling me, what they think a poet laureate should do. I found that immensely valuable.
New Poetess Laureate for UK
This is a formal announcement today:
we have a new Poet Laureate.. hip hip hooray..
‘But who is he? Oh.. it’s a she-poet Laureate…?
so (because I don’t read poetry, of course..)
is that something I should shout hooray at?
or have committees once again, backed the wrong horse? ’
Well, she says she’s not ‘going to write
for Edward and Sophie’…
she’s Sapphic and butch, and called
Carol Ann Duffy
and you can guess, from what she says
that there’ll be no Royal seal in wax
on her democratic classless ways…
(Right now, Supplement sub-editors are trawling her stuff
to find something printable
that’s ‘poetic’ enough…)
The story is, ‘she’d have got it on the last occasion’
except for the aforementioned Sapphic persuasion…
But aren’t poets supposed to be beyond such trivial pursuits? …
and just write poetry and truth; in high heels or in boots?
(And there’s always the hope, with or without Royal permission,
she might say something new about the female condition…)
so, Edward and Sophie with your middle-class morals –
watch out! We could be in for some hard-hitting quarrels
re ‘The Nature of Poetry’ … and about time too:
since poetry’s subject is the deepest me and you…
so the Forum poets here (in this empty music-hall)
hope you stir us up, and have a prancing, dancing Artists’ Ball;
as with controversial old Ted Crow, Poet Laureate and toughie,
we shan’t expect respect – coz you ain’t no fluffy Duffy…
Now chaps - gold watch and thanks to Andrew’s poetic potion:
you could call it - for what words are worth - as
‘tranquillity, recollected in emotion’…
…But sadly, already, in these economic downturn times –
Blackwells offer ‘3 for 2’ on CarolAnn Duffy’s rhymes…
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scraps of Cloud in Rosy Dusk
Scrap rosy cloud evening rays west lake good
Flower bank duckweed sandbar
Ten qing ripple peaceful
Wild bank without person boat self line
West south moon on float cloud scatter
Veranda railing cool born
Lotus scent clear
Water face wind come wine face sober
Scraps of cloud in rosy dusk- West Lake is good.
Flowers on the bank, duckweed on sand,
A hundred acres of peaceful ripples,
On the overgrown bank, no man- just the stroke of a boat.
South-west, across the moon, scattered clouds are drifting.
Cool rises at the terrace rail,
Lotus flowers' scent is clear,
Wind from the water's face makes the wine face sober.
poem by Ouyang Xiu
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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