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Arguably John Clare

In the English language the greatest poet of Nature is arguably John Clare
Many of his bird and animal and insect poems are gems beyond compare
Yet he died in Northampton mental asylum where he had lived for many years
He penned such marvellous poetry though his life was full of tears.

His Nature poems of the nineteenth century are relevant to today
The Badger and The Landrail, The Fox and Clock a Clay
The Pettichap, The Cuckoo and The Thrush's Nest
When Writing about Nature Clare was at his best.

In death the poor shepherd poet from Helpston has come into his own
His poems poetic classics around the World are known
The greatest Nature poet of England as many would agree
A poet for the ages from a life of poverty.

As a boy amongst Nature in the fields of Helpston he knew of happiness
But sad to think one like him in life did not know of success
With any English Nature poet he favourably does compare
The legendary one of Helpston the reamarkable John Clare.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Poems Of John Clare

For years in Northampton mental asylum he battled his ghosts of despair
His Nation's finest poet of Nature the marvellous wordsmith John Clare
So many of his poems are relevant today
The one who loved Nature with words had a way.

The Helpston he grew up in not a cultural place
And though in that old Village his was a known face
They little realized the fame to them he'd bring
That poetry lovers World wide his praises would sing.

Without him less people of Helpston would know
The great poet of Nature of centuries ago
He died in Northampton mental asylum in dire poverty
Yet is there one greater Nature poet than he?

His flora and fauna poems have passed scrutiny's test
And as a Nature poet he was surely the best
Into the soul of Nature it seemed he could see
And his verses have outlived his mortality.

He never did enjoy his literary renown
And he died in the asylum in Northampton Town
But he was a true poet and his type are so rare
And old Helpston lives on in the poems of John Clare.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Mystic And The Realist

in his poem 'To the Cuckoo' Wordsworth described the bird as a mysterious thing
As if a bird's voice without a bird out of nowhere did sing
As he told he searched for the bird on bush and sky and tree
And yet that voice to him remained as a great mystery.

John Clare the poet from Helpston where he lived when he was young
Once got so close to the cuckoo that he even see her tongue
A leading student of Nature's ways Nature he did not mystify
He never told of searching for a mysterious bird in bush and tree and sky.

Poor John Clare had a mental illness by life he was given a raw deal
But he did see Nature for what she is he see Nature as real
The birds and animals that lived around him he intimately knew
And to the reality of Nature till death he remained true.

The Mystic and the Realist they see things differently
What was a real bird to one to the other was a mystery
What makes us all interesting is that we are more different even than we realize
And we see the World around us through very different eyes.

poem by Francis Duggan
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One Has To Wonder Why

John Clare was the English language greatest poet of Nature
So much of Nature's ways the man did know
But he died in a mental institution
In Northampton asylum near to fifteen decades ago

Just like Vincent Van Gogh the Dutchman a World renowned artist
His paintings are sold for millions today
Yet he died poor and mentally unstable
At his own hands in quite a tragic way

William Cowper was a literary genius
A man who too was mentally unwell
He never did enjoy the fame he earned
And life for him it was an Earthly hell

James Clarence Mangan is the National Bard of Ireland
He died in mid life at forty six years old
A poor Dubliner in Ireland's years of famine
His death was of consumption we are told

Janet Frame was a great New Zealand writer
But she was seldom happy in her mind
Her life story is not a happy story
Though her equal would be very hard to find

Stephen Foster was America's greatest songwriter
Of him true greatness cannot be denied
But fame in his lifetime failed to make him happy
And 'twas of alcoholic poisoning that he died

Paul Robeson one of the World's greatest singers
He died a very disappointed man
A victim of politics and racism
Yet his fame on it does not have a time span.

Poverty, madness and racism not a barrier to greatness
As the lives of many greats does testify
But in their lives some for their genius not rewarded
And why this should be one has to wonder why?

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Most Famous I Am Poem

The most famous I Am poem was penned by John Clare
When he was in Northampton mental asylum and burdened by care
A poem from all others that set him apart
For life's poor and forsaken a cry from the heart,
A poem by an aged poet lost in the lost years
The most famous I Am poem move many to tears
A poem written by one who knew about despair
That poem his reality such poems are rare
The most famous I Am poem tells of an Earthly Hell
Known by the fringe dwellers the mentally unwell
The song of an old poet forsaken and gray
The truth in his words is still living today
And though the renowned old wordsmith to the reaper long gone
His famous I Am poem it is living on.

poem by Francis Duggan
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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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A Most Famous I Am Poem

The most famous 'I Am' poem came from the pen of John Clare
When in Northampton mental asylum his type of person rare
Since when mentally unwell his best poems he did pen
One of the most amazing in his time of literary men.

The most famous 'I Am' poem of self does not boast
From the pen of one who to self never drunk a toast
A poor and mentally ill and near forgotten man
One close to the end of his tragic life span.

The most famous 'I Am' poem to it has a sad ring
'Tis not of the wonderful life it does sing
Now used as the anthem poem of the mentally ill
The most famous 'I Am' poem life's cup of dark sorrows does fill.

The most famous 'I Am' poem not a great song of life
But of one who had struggled with his inner strife
From the heart of a poor poet a cry of despair
The most famous 'I Am' poem from the pen of John Clare.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Amazing Joyce

On such rare and marvellous talent how can one put a price
She surely is amazing the one and only Joyce
She has tried every form of poetry one must say with success
And to lovers of poetry Worldwide she brings great happiness.

The marvellous Joyce Hemsley a poetic legend of our time
The internet queen of haiku and senryu and the internet queen of rhyme
Six thousand poems to her name she just goes on and on
One cannot say about her that her better days are gone.

In every one of her poems one can detect her poetic voice
The poet for all Seasons is the amazing Joyce
What can be said about her that has not been said before
Six thousand poems to her name and from her expect many more.

She waves the literary banner for England a true poetic great
The amazing poet from Sunderland we ought to celebrate
A legendary online poet by example she leads the way
And surely a great mentor to all young poets of today.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Parker Clare

To a forgotten culture perhaps he now belongs
The man who could sing over a thousand songs
The father of the famous poet John Clare
Even in his own time people like him were rare.

The ballad singer of the Helpston countryside
Hundreds of the old songs he sung with him died
So little of the oral tradition now remain
Forever lost not to be found again.

Two hundred years ago one of a dying breed
Poor Parker Clare he could not write nor read
Yet through his son his name lives on today
A memory lost but yet to fade away.

He came from an oral tradition that is forever gone
Yet memories of what was still living on
And at a time when great change was happening in his English countryside
Most of the songs he sung with Parker died.

A fading memory that won't fade away
And through his son his name still lives today
Still a genius in his own right the thresher Parker Clare
And even in his time his type were quite rare.

poem by Francis Duggan
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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
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Where Lies Bliss?

Nature, music and love are great in life
A poet and mystic of high nature loves!
Spiritually satisfying Nature he enjoys
Like a free flying bird in this world...!

Whatever comforts one gets in the world
The sense of satisfaction and joy is unique
Each one tries to find in quest of truth
In art, woman and Nature all life forever!

The solace and comfort he seeks he gets
For sure mostly in Nature when all fails!
The expression of such a unique experience
In poems endless he lives forever to guide all!

One's time will have an end one day but
What he does by his art only gives bliss!

poem by Ramesh T A
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0011 How Rilke might have translated Bashó on poetry

Be solitary.
Love solitude, and don’t look for poetry;
don’t seek what former poets sought;
see what is still and changeless;
see also what is changing;
be filled with the true nature of things – mountains, rivers, trees, grasses, falling blossoms, the scattering leaves,
and, yes, humanity too, its true nature –
and the universe will become your companion.
So your solitude will be full of the universe;
and you will watch, unmoved, the reality
and the vacuity of the world.

Concentrate your thoughts, in solitude,
on an object, on each object;
in this concentration,
the space between oneself and the object will disappear,
and the essential nature of the object can be perceived.

Then be quick to express it, while it lives for you;
say quickly what is in your mind;
as a woodcutter fells a tree, or
a swordsman leaps at his enemy, or
as you cut a ripe watermelon with a sharp knife,
or take a large bite at a pear;
this immediacy will be the life of your poem,
for nature will write the poem for you.

The language may be untrue;
but it will live with the truth.

You may feel that writing so quickly,
you may always fail; but pay no attention;
know no other thing than writing poetry;
let it make you penniless, if that is
what it needs, to speak itself.

Then, in your solitude,
which is so full of everything,
the poetic spirit will lead you wherever you must go,
make you a friend of nature,
and every form of existence will reveal
its individual feelings to you –
which are similar to those of men;
and all things, you will know, have their fulfilment.

In this solitude, your mind will be undistracted;
and then, enlightened by nature itself,
you may return to the world,
with a lightness of being, and poems
as light as looking
at the sandy bed of a shallow river;

as a tree untouched by the axe,
seemingly useless,
vulnerable to wind and rain,
at ease in itself.
Like a poet.

(This text is Bashó's advice to a poet. But the medieval Japanese poet and the modern European poet seem to be so close in their search for essence, for being, that some of Bashó's phrases have the same ring as Rilke's own advice to a young poet. I have tried to bring this out discreetly..)

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Mangan

Arguably the greatest poet old Ireland has seen
'Twas he penned the poem known as 'Dark Rosaleen'
In eighteen forty nine in his mid forties in poverty he died
Though true genius of him never can be denied
The great James Clarence Mangan Ireland's National bard
His journey through life was to say the least hard
He lived as he died in abject poverty
Yet one could not name many poets as great as he
From consumption and poor diet and neglect he died very young
For him no State funeral and he was unsung
Despite his hard life it seems a remarkable feat
That so many great poems the great poet did bequeath
To Ireland and it's people though he died just past his prime
As one of the poor souls of the Dublin of his time.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Poet and Chivalry

Poet, an industry not of mankind
An era that poet’s in awe to partake a rite
Poetry belongs to the ancient tribe
An era that poet’s dissolute and roaming
Poetry ascribes to nature and wildness
An era that poet a jester praised in comic to entertain the king
Poetry is the plaything of an empire
The era that poet yields to the media, pursuing fame and fortune
Poetry is a consuming product

Poet holds in awe since the heaven and earth are vast
Poet’s degenerated because of his nature
Poet’s comical because ironical the self derision
Poet capitulates because of human’s weakness

Although poet hasn’t always been an industry of mankind
Its luster would shine upon the darkness that poet ever survived
Lighting a light in darkness of history and showing its courage
Lighting a light in darkness of future and proving its foresight
Compromised the life
But allows not to compromise of poetry
The spirit and vitality of a chivalry is the case

Poet, still not an industry of mankind
Today
The chivalry has sealed his sword and pen
The page of poetry gradually stained and spotted yellow
The sharp sword conceals a smoked silver flash

poem by DePen Chang
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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
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The Beauty Of Nature The Poets Inspire

Were I a poet I'd write of Nature's beauty around me
The songs of the birds on bush, hedge and tree
The flowers of the garden so lovely to see
The beauty of Nature to look at is free.

The babble of the waterways the brook, creek and rill
That flow to the river downland from the hill
That flows to the coast all the way to the sea
One of Nature's Goddess wonders none as great as she.

Of singing her praises could one ever tire
The beauty of Nature the poets inspire
To pen their poems to her of her praises they do sing
The beauty of Nature outlives her every Spring.

And though all of her life forms to life come and go
Goddess of Nature whose secrets anybody does not know
Will live on forever she will never die
Unlike all other mortals such as you and I.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Poet's Soul

I read the poet's souls in the poems,
I read the poet's inner world.
Pulse beats louder, then duller,
And all my doubts are just hurled.

The sadness sometimes a kiss cover,
Then suddenly curled at my feet,
Giving the whole body a heat,
The warmth of a true lover.

Fever passes through nervous points,
Chill runs through the whole body,
I read the poet's souls in the poems,
And feel that the soul is haughty.

I delve into the words and their nature,
Understanding destroys the walls,
Now I would like to capture
The main idea and the poems calls.

I read and my joy is in full swing,
My own soul gets the wings,
I am ready to fly with the singer,
Like me the poet is a swinger.

I am with that one who dared
To plunge into the holy spring naked,
I am with that one who shared
An inspiration and was not faked.

I read the poet's souls in the poems.
But do I read the souls of reality or dream?
Let's deem that no one here and there lies,
And the law of poetry is always precise.

©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 4th of April,2012

poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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John Masefield Was More

John Masefield was more than a man of rhyme
Perhaps the greatest poet of his time
At least that's how I feel about him anyway
Though some may not agree with what I say.

John Masefield he penned many a verse play
And even his longer poems enjoyed and read today
The Everlasting Mercy and The Widow in the Bye Street
As narrative masterpieces would be hard to beat.

John Masefield literary works will live forever more
His fame has spread far beyond England's shore
He was a master of the wordsmith trade
'Tis true that poets are born and not made.

John Masefield was more than a literary man of note
He was indeed a very brilliant poet
A high standard of writing into old age he did attain
And will we ever see his likes again?

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Deceased Poets Of Nature

Such beautiful poems to Nature they did write
The poetry we love for to read and recite
May they rest in peace now where-ever they lay
The deceased poets of Nature their poems live today

They glorified Nature and her praises they sung
And though they may be long dead their poems remain young
the poets of the land and the poets of the sea
In their beautiful poetry their greatness we do see

Their poems and their songs I loved as a boy
And their poems and their songs I will always enjoy
The beauty of Nature they did celebrate
And beauty in their words they loved to create.

Great insights of Nature from them we did gain
The beauty of their words with us does remain
We loved them for their poems in decades long gone
The deceased poets of Nature their poems living on.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Innocent Beauty Vavroovahana Patra

Innocent beauty lives below the mountain;
Enjoys the beauty of the fountain.
Magnifies the beauty of Nature;
With sweet conversation contents poet’s desire.

Innocent Beauty is a beautiful flower;
In the lap of Nature is a lovely creature.
Her innocence provides inspiration;
She is a cosy rosy Beauty in the lap of Creation.

A little sweet conversation delights the poet day and night;
He is inspired to depict verses with delight.
Derives peace and pleasure;
Derives peace from the lap of Nature.

Beauty passes on the path delightfully;
Poet depicts poems gaily.
Enchants enjoying the Beauty;
She is a Brook of Gaiety.

Vernal Sun beam provides gay;
Beauteous looks the vernal day.
People enchant delightfully;
Poet surrenders on Mother’s feet gaily.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Leave Me To Mother Nature

I don't want to live for to be frail and old and kept alive by pills
And taking the most unnatural drugs for to combat my many ills
Leave me to Mother Nature my fate she will decide
Since the Reaper will find us all one day from him we cannot hide.

The greatest people we know of their fame was known World wide
They loved life, their achievements great but they grew old and died
The longest human life seems brief in the eternity of time
And time outlives the artist's fame and the great poet's greatest rhyme.

With pills do not prolong my suffering of suffering set me free
Leave me to Mother Nature she knows what's best for me
Human bodily parts like an old car engine with age slowly decay
Leave me to Mother Nature when I've known my better day.

Leave me to Mother Nature of me she will take care
An ageing body as we know is beyond human repair
Us Humans like Nature's Seasons to life we come and go
But Mother Nature lives forever the only God I know.

poem by Francis Duggan
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