Poetry month – Austin John Marshall

Dancing at Whitsun

It’s fifty-one springtimes since she was a bride,
But still you may see her at each Whitsuntide
In a dress of white linen and ribbons of green,
As green as her memories of loving.

The feet that were nimble tread carefully now,
As gentle a measure as age do allow,
Through groves of white blossom, by fields of young corn,
Where once she was pledged to her true love.

The fields they are empty, the hedges grow free,
No young men to tend them, or pastures go see.
They’ve gone where the forests of oak trees before
Had gone to be wasted in battle.

Down from their green farmlands and from their loved ones
Marched husbands and brothers and fathers and sons.
There’s a fine roll of honour where the Maypole once was,
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.

There’s a row of straight houses in these latter days
Are covering the Downs where the sheep used to graze.
There’s a field of red poppies, a wreath from the Queen.
But the ladies remember at Whitsun,
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.

Poetry Month – This is my Mother’s world

If you follow the link below you will find out how this hymn changed everything for her at the age of 9. If her parents had known what was going to happen there, they never would have sent her to church camp.
https://elfkat.wordpress.com/2011/12/…/the-tree-and-the-girl-a-true-story..

This is my Mother’s world, and to my listening ears
All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.
This is my Mother’s world: I rest me in the thought
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
Her hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Mother’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Mother’s world: She shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Her pass;
She speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Mother’s world, should my heart be ever sad?
In a bush abloom to my wondering gaze She makes Her glory known.
This Mother’s world and earth and heaven are one.
The Lady sings and my heart rings –
I see her in Moon, and Earth and Sun.

This is my Mother’s world. I walk a desert lone.
She blesses me and keeps step with me, I learn what she has taught
This is my Mother’s world, a wanderer I may roam
Whate’er my lot, it matters not,
My heart is still at home.

Poetry Month – A Spring Carol

Spring Carol – Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

Autoplay next video
WHEN loud by landside streamlets gush,
And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush,
With sun on the meadows
And songs in the shadows
Comes again to me
The gift of the tongues of the lea,
The gift of the tongues of meadows.

Straightway my olden heart returns
And dances with the dancing burns;
It sings with the sparrows;
To the rain and the (grimy) barrows
Sings my heart aloud –
To the silver-bellied cloud,
To the silver rainy arrows.

It bears the song of the skylark down,
And it hears the singing of the town;
And youth on the highways
And lovers in byways
Follows and sees:
And hearkens the song of the leas
And sings the songs of the highways.

So when the earth is alive with gods,
And the lusty ploughman breaks the sod,
And the grass sings in the meadows,
And the flowers smile in the shadows,
Sits my heart at ease,
Hearing the song of the leas,
Singing the songs of the meadows.
Robert Louis Stevenson

Poetry Month – Who is the Goddess?

The Goddess is dark and beautiful with knowing eyes.

The Goddess is old and walks with a cane.

The Goddess is the colour of rich cream and is surrounded by art.

The Goddess is the colour of brick dust and watches over the flocks surrounded by no one.

The Goddess is pink, flushed from a race.

The Goddess is pale and sits alone in the dark.

The Goddess is small and wizened with dark eyes.

The Goddess is round and strong with muscular arms from hard work.

The Goddess is thin and ill and labours to breathe for it is work.

The Goddess stands with arms out blessing her gardens and fields.

The Goddess is dying in her bed surrounded by ones who love her.

The Goddess dies alone on a dirty street ignored with the trash.

The Goddess cries at injustice and pain and abuse.

The Goddess walks strongly on mountain path leading children of all shapes sizes and colours.

The Goddess follows behind and hopes she makes a difference.

The Goddess is in everyone of us.

The Goddess looks like us.

The Goddess is in the mirror.

Listen to her.

©2014 Kat Robb

Poetry Month – Rudyard Kipling

A Tree Song”

OF all the trees that grow so fair,

Old England to adorn,

Greater are none beneath the Sun,

Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs,

(All of a Midsummer morn!)

Surely we sing no little thing,

In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oak of the Clay lived many a day,

Or ever AEneas began.

Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,

When Brut was an outlaw man.

Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town

(From which was London born);

Witness hereby the ancientry

Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard-mould,

He breedeth a mighty bow.

Alder for shoes do wise men choose,

And beech for cups also.

But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,

And your shoes are clean outworn,

Back ye must speed for all that ye need,

To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth

Till every gust be laid,

To drop a limb on the head of him

That anyway trusts her shade:

But whether a lad be sober or sad,

Or mellow with ale from the horn,

He will take no wrong when he lieth along

‘Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,

Or he would call it a sin;

But – we have been out in the woods all night,

A-conjuring Summer in!

And we bring you news by word of mouth-

Good news for cattle and corn-

Now is the Sun come up from the South,

With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs

(All of a Midsummer morn):

England shall bide ti11 Judgment Tide,

By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Poetry month – Spring Carol

When loud by landside streamlets gush,
And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush,
With sun on the meadows
And songs in the shadows
Comes again to me
The gift of the tongues of the lea,
The gift of the tongues of meadows.

Straightway my olden heart returns
And dances with the dancing burns;
It sings with the sparrows;
To the rain and the (grimy) barrows
Sings my heart aloud –
To the silver-bellied cloud,
To the silver rainy arrows.

It bears the song of the skylark down,
And it hears the singing of the town;
And youth on the highways
And lovers in byways
Follows and sees:
And hearkens the song of the leas
And sings the songs of the highways.

So when the earth is alive with gods,
And the lusty ploughman breaks the sod,
And the grass sings in the meadows,
And the flowers smile in the shadows,
Sits my heart at ease,
Hearing the song of the leas,
Singing the songs of the meadows.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Poetry month – The Woods

Robert Frost

The woods are lovely
Dark and deep
And I have promises to keep
And I have promises to keep

Poetry Month – April Fool

Listen to the bark of the dogwood tree
Go into the garden take a little green pea
Just one month till the end of school
I’m an April Fool
The willow in the backyard can’t stop weepin’
Seeds in the ground are soundly sleepin’
Days are warm but the nights are cool
I’m an April Fool

Chorus

I’m an April Fool, and I’ve got to say
From the end of March to the first of May
That’s the place I’d love to stay
I’m an April Fool

Sheets on the line all wild and blowing
Cross your fingers there’s no more snowing
It froze last night in the swimming pool
I’m an April Fool
Gotta mow the grass, been nearly half a year
At nights spring peepers are all you hear
Old full moon like a shining jewel
I’m an April Fool

Chorus

The old crabgrass keeps on complaining
It’d be real dry if it’d just stop raining
Eliot said this month is cruel
I’m an April Fool
March to the beat of an April tune
We May be this way till June
Take a deep breath and I know that you’ll
Be an April Fool

Chorus

©1998 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs (ASCAP) & Joe Hill Music (ASCAP)

April is Poetry month

ELECTION DAY, NOVEMBER, 1884.

Walt Whitman

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest
scene and show,
‘Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor
your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-
loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—
nor Mississippi’s stream:
—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the
still small voice vibrating—America’s choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the
quadriennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d—sea-board and inland
—Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia,
California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and con-
flict,
The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:)
the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:
—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the
heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

– Robert Frost