MY FAVOURITE POETS AND THEIR POETRY
 
                              
     Stevenson        Byron 
 
                
Longfellow         Kipling          Hardy
 
In this page I have chosen to present old and new poetry.
Some by well known and recognised poets others by new lesser known and modern poets.But all who have that unique way of writing with words that flow and suprise one with their vigour vitality and freshness.
 
  
This is the very first poem i learnt by heart at school
 
THE WINDMILL
 
 
Behold! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour The maize,
and the wheat, and the rye,
 And grind them into flour.
 I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see The harvest that is to be,
 And I fling to the air my arms,
 For I know it is all for me.
 
 I hear the sound of flails Far off,
 from the threshing-floors In barns,
with their open doors,
 And the wind, the wind in my sails,
 Louder and louder roars.
 
 I stand here in my place,
 With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow,
 I meet it face to face,
 As a brave man meets his foe.
 
 And while we wrestle and strive,
 My master, the miller,
 stands And feeds me with his hands;
 For he knows who makes him thrive,
 Who makes him lord of lands.
 
 On Sundays I take my rest;
 Church-going bells begin Their low,
melodious din;
 I cross my arms on my breast,
 And all is peace within.
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
 
 

 

This is my favourite poem

 

IF

 

 

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you

But make allowance for their doubting too,

 

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

 

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

 

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,

 

If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

 

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

 

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

 

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

 

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

 

Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much,

 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

 

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son

 

RUDYARD KIPLING

 

 

This is my favourite lyricist

 

"Desolation Row" BOB DYLAN

 

 

They're selling postcards of the hanging

They're painting the passports brown

The beauty parlor is filled with sailors

The circus is in town

 

Here comes the blind commissioner

They've got him in a trance

One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker

The other is in his pants

 

And the riot squad they're restless

They need somewhere to go

As Lady and I look out tonight

From Desolation Row.

 

Cinderella, she seems so easy

"It takes one to know one," she smiles

And puts her hands in her back pockets

Bette Davis style

 

And in comes Romeo, he's moaning

"You belong to Me I Believe"

And someone says, "You're in the wrong place, my friend

You better leave"

 

And the only sound that's left

After the ambulances go

Is Cinderella sweeping up

On Desolation Row.

 

Now the moon is almost hidden

The stars are beginning to hide

The fortunetelling lady

Has even taken all her things inside

 

All except for Cain and Abel

And the hunchback of Notre Dame

Everybody is making love

Or else expecting rain

 

And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing

He's getting ready for the show

He's going to the carnival tonight

On Desolation Row.

 

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window

For her I feel so afraid

On her twenty-second birthday

She already is an old maid

 

To her, death is quite romantic

She wears an iron vest

Her profession's her religion

Her sin is her lifelessness

 

And though her eyes are fixed upon

Noah's great rainbow

She spends her time peeking

Into Desolation Row.

 

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood

With his memories in a trunk

Passed this way an hour ago

With his friend, a jealous monk

 

He looked so immaculately frightful

As he bummed a cigarette

Then he went off sniffing drainpipes

And reciting the alphabet

 

You would not think to look at him

But he was famous long ago

For playing the electric violin

On Desolation Row.

 

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world

Inside of a leather cup

But all his sexless patients

They're trying to blow it up

 

Now his nurse, some local loser

She's in charge of the cyanide hole

And she also keeps the cards that read

"Have Mercy on His Soul"

 

They all play on penny whistles

You can hear them blow

If you lean your head out far enough

From Desolation Row.

 

Across the street they've nailed the curtains

They're getting ready for the feast

The Phantom of the Opera

In a perfect image of a priest

 

They're spoonfeeding Casanova

To get him to feel more assured

Then they'll kill him with self-confidence

After poisoning him with words

 

And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls

"Get outa here if you don't know"

Casanova is just being punished for going

To Desolation Row.

 

At midnight all the agents

And the superhuman crew

Come out and round up everyone

That knows more than they do

 

Then they bring them to the factory

Where the heart-attack machine

Is strapped across their shoulders

And then the kerosene

 

Is brought down from the castles

By insurance men who go

Check to see that nobody is escaping

To Desolation Row.

 

They be to Nero's Neptune

The Titanic sails at dawn

Everybody's shouting

"Which side are you on ?"

 

And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot

Fighting in the captain's tower

While calypso singers laugh at them

And fishermen hold flowers

 

Between the windows of the sea

Where lovely mermaids flow

And nobody has to think too much

About Desolation Row.

 

Yes, I received your letter yesterday

About the time the door knob broke

When you asked me how I was doing

Was that some kind of joke ?

 

All these people that you mention

Yes, I know them, they're quite lame

I had to rearrange their faces

And give them all another name

 

Right now I can't read too good

Dont send me no more letters no

Not unless you mail them

From Desolation Row.

 

BOB DYLAN

 

 

Here are the words of this Barnes poem THE LEANE/originally in dorset dialect which hopefully I've written correctly/translated into national English:

 

THE LANE

 

They do say that a travelling chap

have a put in the newspapers now,

that the bit of grass ground on the knap

should all be taken for the plough.

 

He do fancy that it is easy to show

that we can be but stupid at best,

for to leave a green spot where a flower can grow

or a foot weary walker can rest.

 

It's hedge grabbing, Thomas,

 and ledge-grabbing

never a done while a sovereign mores to be gained.

 

Years ago the lane's sides did bear grass

for to pull with the geese red bills,

that did hiss at the folks that did pass,

or the boys that picked up their white quills.

 

But soon if flower or life of

our goslings do creep from the egg,

they must mope in the garden,

 more dead than alive

in a coop or else tied by their leg,

 

for to catch at the land, Thomas,

 and snatch at land,

now is the plan - Make money wherever you can.

 

For to breed the young fox or the hare

we can give up whole acreas of ground,

but the greens be agrudged, for to rear

our young children up healthy and strong,

 

why, there won't be left in the next age

a green spot where their feet can run free,

and the cuckoo will soon be committed to cage

for trespassing in somebody's tree,

 

for it's locking up, Thomas,

and blocking up stranger or brother

- Men musn't come near one another

 

~ by William Barnes

 

 

THE HEART OF THOMAS HARDY

 

 The heart of Thomas Hardy flew out of Stinsford churchyard

 A little thumping fig, it rocketed over the elm trees. Lighter than air it flew straight to where its Creator Waited in golden nimbus,

 just as in eighteen sixty, Hardman and son of Brum had depicted Him in the chancel.

Slowly out of the grass, slitting the mounds in the centre Riving apart the roots,

rose the new covered corpses Tess and Jude and His Worship, various unmarried mothers, Woodmen, cutters of turf, adulterers, church restorers,

 

 Turning aside the stones thump on the upturned churchyard. Soaring over the elm trees slower than Thomas Hardy,

 Weighted down with a Conscience,

 now for the first time fleshly Taking form as a growth hung from the feet like a sponge-bag.

 

 There, in the heart of the nimbus, twittered the heart of Hardy There,

 on the edge of the nimbus, slowly revolved the corpses Radiating around the twittering heart of Hardy,

 Slowly started to turn in the light of their own Creator Died away in the night as frost will blacken a dahlia.

 

John Betjeman

 

The three Beggars

 

Three beggars begged by noon & night,

They begged to left & they begged to right,

But nought had got for their trouble:

 

So two sat them down & wept full sore,

But the third one said they should weep no more,

And vowed they should yet feed double.

 

They parted ways at the rise of sun,

And swore to meet when the day was done,

And each should tell his findings.

 

So one went east, & one went west,

But the third went on, for he thought it best,

And followed the pathway's windings.

 

~ E. A. Blair(GEORGE ORWELL), July 1920

 

 

CAROL ANN DUFFY 

 

The following are links to some of my favourite poets at Poetrypoem www.poetrypoem.com

 

BRENDA WILLS http://www.poetrypoem.com/fancynfree

 

 

HARLEY SUTTON http://poetrypoem.com/cgi-bin/index.pl?item=home&sitename=pupwee

 

Other Poetry sites which I visit regularly
JOHN BARCLAY
HARBOUR POETS
 
GYPSY POETRY
 
Link to a splendid site with poems all composed by Gypsies
 
 
 
POEMS COMPOSED BY FAMOUS POETS.

 

                           

 

Throughout history poets have delved into the gypsy world and attempted to define that mystery of mysticism intuition and freedom of the road.

 

 The Gypsy Trail.

 

 

    The white moth to the closing bine,
       The bee to the opened clover,
    And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
       Ever the wide world over.

     

    Ever the wide world over, lass,
       Ever the trail held true,
    Over the world and under the world,
       And back at the last to you.

     

    Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,
       Out of the grime and the gray
    (Morning waits at the end of the world),
       Gipsy, come away!

     

    The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp
       The red crane to her reed,
    And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
       By the tie of a roving breed.

     

    The pied snake to the rifted rock,
       The buck to the stony plain,
    And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
       And both to the road again.

     

    Both to the road again, again!
       Out on a clean sea-track --
    Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
       Over the world and back!

     

    Follow the Romany patteran
        North where the blue bergs sail,
    And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,
        And the masts are shod with mail.

     

    Follow the Romany patteran
       Sheer to the Austral Light,
       Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,
       Sweeping the sea-floors white.

     

    Follow the Romany patteran
       West to the sinking sun,
    Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.
       And the east and west are one.

     

    Follow the Romany patteran
       East where the silence broods
    By a purple wave on an opal beach
       In the hush of the Mahim woods.

     

     

    "The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
       The deer to the wholesome wold,
    And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
       As it was in the days of old."

     

    The heart of a man to the heart of a maid --
       Light of my tents, be fleet.

     

    Morning waits at the end of the world,
       And the world is all at our feet!

     

     Rudyard Kipling.

     THE GYPSY. 

     

     

     

    A fortnight before Christmas Gypsies were everywhere:

     Vans were drawn up on wastes, women trailed to the fair.

    'My gentleman,' said one, 'you've got a lucky face.' 'And you've a luckier,' I thought,

    'if such a grace And impudence in rags are lucky.'

     'Give a penny For the poor baby's sake.'

    'Indeed I have not any Unless you can give change for a sovereign,

     my dear.'

    'Then just half a pipeful of tobacco can you spare?' I gave it.

     With that much victory she laughed content.

    I should have given more, but off and away she went

    With her baby and her pink sham flowers to rejoin The rest before I could translate to its proper coin Gratitude for her grace.

     And I paid nothing then, As I pay nothing now with the dipping of my pen For her brother's music when he drummed the tambourine And stamped his feet,which made the workmen passing grin,

     While his mouth-organ changed to a rascally Bacchanal dance 'Over the hills and far away.'

     

     This and his glance Outlasted all the fair,

    farmer, and auctioneer, Cheap-jack, balloon-man, drover with crooked stick, and steer, Pig, turkey, goose, and duck, Christmas Corpses to be.

    Not even the kneeling ox had eyes like the Romany.

     That night he peopled for me the hollow wooded land,

     More dark and wild than stormiest heavens,

    that I searched and scanned Like a ghost new-arrived.

    The gradations of the dark Were like an underworld of death,

     but for the spark In the Gypsy boy's black eyes as he played and stamped his tune, 'Over the hills and far away', and a crescent moon.

     

    EDWARD THOMAS.

      The Gypsies

      (1824)
      The Gypsies in the noisy throng
      Stray Bessarabia around.
      Today over the river, long,
      They’re lodging in their tents, worn out.
      Like freedom their night-resting is –
      And peaceful sleep the heavens under.
       

     

     

      Between the wagons’ tired wheels,
      Covered with rugs, long-used in wonders,
      A fire’s flamed. A family’s 
      Preparing, round it, a dinner;
      A horse is gazing in the fields,
      Is sleeping, free, a teamed bear-thriller.
      Amidst the steppes all well lives:
      The peaceful tasks of families,
      Ready by morning for a travel,
      And songs of wives, and children’ weeps,
      And ringing of a mobile anvil.
       

      But now, over the Gipsy camp,
      The dozing silence is prevailing,
      And heard is, in the sleeping steppe,
      Just a dog’s barking and steed’s neighing.
      Extinguished is each single light,
      All’s peaceful now. The moon is shining,
      Alone in the heaven height,
      And at the quiet camp is lighting.
       

      Just one old man’s not sleeping, yet,
      Sitting by ambers in his tent,
      Warmed with their last heat – fast by-passing –
      He’s looking at the fields’ extent,
      Covered by clamps of the steam, rising.
      His daughter, youthful one and light,
      Went for a walk in a field, empty.
       

      She’s used to freedom, full and zesty,
      She will come back, but there’s a night...
      And soon the crescent, still a-ruling,
      Will leave the distant clouds’ set –
      Zemphira’s absent, and is cooling
      A dinner the old man prepared.
       

      But there is she. Through the steppe, lone,
      A youth is following her steps;
      For the old gipsy he’s unknown
      “My father,” the young maiden says,
      “We have a guest. I’ve found him, missing,
      In a desert that mound behind
      And called for our camp for a night,
      He wants to be like us – the Gipsy;
      He’s prosecuted by a law.  
       

      I’ll be his friend, the true and fair –
      His name’s Aleko – and therefore
      He vowed to follow me everywhere.”
       
       

    ALEXANSDRA PUSHKIN.

    Here i present a few of the more famous poems by the poets of romance and freedom.

     

    'The Gipsy Girl'

     

    "Come,try your skill,

    kind gentlemen,

    A penny for three tries!

    "Some threw and lost,

     some threw and won

    A ten-a-penny prize.

     

    She was a tawny gipsy girl,

    A girl of twenty years,

    I liked her for the lumps of gold

    That jingled from her ears;

     

    I liked the flaring yellow scarf

    Bound loose around her throat,

    I liked her showy purple gown

    And flashy velvet coat.

     

    A man came up,

     too loose of tongue,

    And said no good to her;

    She did not blush as Saxons do,

    Or turn upon the cur;

    She fawned and whined "Sweet gentleman,

    A penny for three tries!"

     

    - But oh, the den of wild things in

    The darkness of her eyes!--

     

     Ralph Hodgson

  • POET SEERS

  • http://www.poetseers.org/

  •  

     

     

                      

    •