Britain's Slough and Upton
Brief Synopsis:
Just prior to German air raids on Slough
in World War Two, Thames Valley was
progressing with a new industrial plan,
which could have brought distress to
the peaceful rural land...John Betjeman,
the poet, wrote rhyming words to disapprove;
what more could a disappointed Laureate do?
'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough,
it isn't fit for humans now'. John Betjeman.
But Slough today is a pleasant town,
where every amenity can be found...
and yew trees surround the graveyard
of the Norman Church of renown.
'Twas here ~ in his own Slough garden
Sir William Hershall of astronomy fame
built the world's large telescope,
for which stargazers honour his name.
And Sir Thomas Gray, poet supreme,
wrote a most delightful theme:
I now quote the first four lines of a very
long poem from historical times:
'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard'
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
the lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
the plowman homeward plods his weary way
and leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Thomas Gray.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Related quotes
Glosa
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
The lowing herd winds solely o’er the lea.
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
and leaves the world to darkness and to me
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
A hush descends upon the countryside,
now is the hour when owls come out to prey.
Like ghosts on silent feathered wings they glide
The lowing herds winds slowly oe’r the lea.
Quite soon they will be relieved of their distress.
The bursting udders emptied easily.
Their heightened pace betrays their eagerness.
The ploughman homewards plods his weary way.
He’s more than ready for his evening meal,
he and his horse have worked along hard day
and both were glad to hear the tocsin bell.
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
I wait and watch for the stars to appear
and marvel at their punctuality.
I wonder if they too some signal hear
Poeticpiers aka ivor
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Truth In Thomas Gray
Long years ago I had this dream of fame
That mine would live on as remembered name
That people would remember me and say
A legend once a legend still today.
But I think quite different now than I thought then
That I'd know fame and outlive other men
And now I know it matters none at all
Before we walk we have to learn to crawl.
And who could disagree with Thomas Gray
His elegy alive and well today
'Those paths of glory still lead to the grave'
And man to immortality still a slave.
It matters little to you when you die
Your fame that lives on you cannot enjoy
So enjoy life why worry about fame
And treat all people equal all the same.
Longfellow wrote 'It is not always May'
And the fairest rose in garden yesterday
Today it's petals scattered on the ground
And other roses blooming all around.
In my younger years just west of Millstreet Town
I yearned for fame and riches and renown
But now I see the truth in Thomas Gray
And I look at life in quite a different way.
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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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
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Powerful Pens
The pen is greater than the sword or so it’s often said.
A poet’s word still stirs the heart long after he is dead.
The 'Elegy' of Thomas Gray can still provoke a thought.
And Campbell’s 'Ullin’s Daughter' proves that anger gains you nought.
What of the tales of Highwaymen that Alfred Noyes wrote,
We all felt sorry for the man with lace bunched at his throat.
Omar Khayyam’s finger writes and having writ moves on.
But still his clever verse delights long after he has gone.
Why is it John Clare’s 'Morning' or Tennyson’s 'The Brook? .'
When found in an anthology still make us stop to look.
Its true Maysfield’s 'Sea Fever' will cause an inner ache.
In any landlocked seaman’s heart who’s seen a grey dawn break.
As Newbolt’s 'Fighting Temeraire' will always last the distance.
Likewise will Marks Poem Code for the French Resistance.
Could we forget Keats’s 'Gypsy Meg' with bed of brown heath turf,
or John Hays 'The Enchanted Shirt' so full of subtle mirth
When Wordsworth’s 'Golden Daffodils' herald in the spring.
Along with Housman’s 'Cherry Tree' it makes your spirit sing.
Whilst Thomas Hardy’s 'Darkling Thrush' when frost was spectre grey
captures for eternity a dying winters day
Kipling’s classic poem 'If' sets rules for living by.
Whereas his 'Undertakers Horse' reminds us that we die.
The beauty of the written verse out lives whoever wrote it,
So throughout the centuries' others oft will quote it.
The Poets fame will light a flame in hearts of all mankind.
When those who led great armies, long since are left behind.
So remember all who fight for right with gun and bomb and sword.
Your deeds are unrecorded until someone writes the word
The Lake Poets
You have heard of William Wordsworth he was bard of Cockermouth
And he truly was a great poet if that ever was in doubt
And with Southey and With Coleridge they became known as the lake poets
And they made the Lake District famous and some famous poems they wrote.
Robert Southey was a fine poet he was slave to poetry
And he was for awhile Poet Laureate proves the great poet he must be
And though he is not well known as Coleridge and Wordsworth's is a greater name
He tends to be under rated and deserve a better fame.
And as for Samuel Taylor Coleridge a name verse critics celebrate
His works were born of genius a poetic all time great
The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner his masterpiece and some say
Is even greater than the famous elegy of Gray
And as for himself Will Wordsworth his fame seem to grow and grow
He has fifty times as many readers nowadays as he had one hundred years ago
When one talks of poets and poetry Wordsworth's name can't be left out
A testimony to the greatness of the Bard of Cockermouth.
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth geniuses all three
Their names inscribed in glory and poetic history
They lived in the Lake District that beautiful English country side
And due to the fame of these men the Lake District is known World wide.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Poem about poetry - the poetic space
i love you
the amateur poet
wrote on the site
without revealing himself
i love you
the world known poet
wrote on the site
without revealing himself
and i read both
the second somehow
has a larger resonance
destined to be great?
the greater poet
has even carved
for himself a space
that recognises all his words
that space in me and you
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Poem about Poetry - what is not poetry
writing lines
not like a child
writing lines
robotlike
hitting at keys
rather than own heart
writing lines
throwing words
which are yet
our friends
words picked
from thesaurus
dictionaries
for word's sake
an alley of prostitutes
we treat as our wives
godless
writing as if
the world
possesses
no soul and
god, the real poet
who spares symbols
for his creation
trees, lightning,
thunder
for poets
to colour their world
to see the other side
of the world
how the trees, lightning
thunder
are a part of men
themselves
described,
the trees - spring of youth
lightning - rage
thunder - warning
the warming effect
god's verse to men's uncaring verse
misinterpretation of his symbols
god the leading poet
the world a repository of symbols
for his masterpiece
a masterpiece
we could only admire
the real poet leaves us
something to ponder about
and to add a verse or two
to his work
like the almighty poet
who when he likes
answers us back
in riddles
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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It is my art. I am better at it than I ever was. And I will do it as long as I can. When you reach a certain age you can slough off what is unnecessary and concentrate on what is. And why not?
quote by Arthur Miller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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The Clay
When I cast my slough of clay
Put it quietly away.
Let no bloom untimely fade
Where my empty heart is laid.
Ask no folk to crowd around
With an air of woe profound.
Those who love me know that I
Cannot in a coffin lie.
Let them go where'er they will,
Dreaming of me living still.
Let no formal words be said
Customary for the dead.
Plant no stone above the pit:
Let the grass run over it.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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The Poem Is The Poet
THE POEM IS THE POET
The poem is the poet
It tells his story even when he does not intend it to-
It bears his signature even when he forges it-
The poem is the poet-
It reflects his mind his soul-
It cannot be written without what he is
Though he denies what he is to himself-
The poem is the poet
And the poet's contradictions-
It is the mask of his self - expression
And his ultimate definition in words-
When he writes he becomes himself
And when he finishes it
He leaves a part of himself in it for as long as it exists.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Homeward Going
GRAY smoke in the green leaves,
Someone homeward going,
No sound in the lone hills . . .
Only cattle lowing.
Still trees and a hushed world,
Leaf and limb unshaken,
No wind in the tall grass,
Creeksides bird-forsaken.
Pale, pale and with mute lips
One in shadow lying —
Near gone from the green world,
Sorrow nigh him sighing.
Day's strife and a life's strife
Each in quiet ending;
Life's light and the dark of death
Softly interblending.
One star on a far ridge,
Home the Homeward going,
No sound on the lone hills . . .
Only cattle lowing.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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If You Are a Poet
If you are a poet it means so much
as others souls you often touch.
Your own soul you cruelly cut
petting the others with your blood.
To be a poet means to sing of beauty
and it’s the main poet’s duty.
Rhyming the words to tell the truth
and it has to be quite smooth.
To be a poet means to burn with passion,
to treat the others grief with a compassion,
to love the others as yourself,
to hear the voice of kind elf.
To be a poet means to dream,
to tell the world a touching theme,
to speak sincerely and frankly
but not just rhyming poems blankly.
Rhyming words is not the main,
there’s no need to strain your brain.
If your heart has nothing to tell
rhymed words will look like hell.
To be a poet means to write
as if your blood gushes from vein,
to write the rhythm of living breath,
the rhythm of life that seethe.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
30/9 2010
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Pray to the saint until you have passed the slough.
The Old Doubting Thomas
The old doubting Thomas is living today
And most of his school friends long with the dead lay
To the war cry of the leader they took up the gun
And they paid with their young lives for the war to be won
The young doubting Thomas he was young back then
He did not march off to war with the other young men
And though in his honour never a parade
He feels no regret at the choice he had made.
The old doubting Thomas he feels rather sad
That in World war 1 he lost his young dad
To his widowed mother a devoted son
He promised her never to take up a gun.
He still talks of the father he never did know
A war hero almost nine decades ago
The only regret in life he's ever had
Is that he never did know the one who was his dad.
The old doubting Thomas from time looking gray
His grandchildren have school going children today
Many of his school friends died in World War 2
And the dreams that they had were not meant to come true.
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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Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold.
quote by John Betjeman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poet Became His Own Poetry
A POET BECAME HIS OWN POETRY
A poet became his own poetry
And all he could be
Was lines and lines and lines
Inside and outside
Lines and more lines
Off- rhymes
Finding a phrase
A metaphor
Hearing listening
To sounds
His own mind made.
A poet became his own poetry
And went into the long sleep
Of being only what he wrote.
No one can know how
Reading these lines now
The poet and the poetry live
without themselves.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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