The first time I saw you at the station I knew I had known you someplace in time Perhaps at the dawn of creation As the earth came into her prime Our love began in its probation In sunshine, in rain, in every clime Here and there, in every nation I knew I’d love you in every lifetime
For eternal love has no cessation In familiarity that echoes the heart’s chime You and I, there is no end of duration I love you then, and will again, and this time Is as wonderful as the first incantation This life, and all lives, we’re desire in prime Making love in eternal adulation I knew I’d love you in every lifetime
A sadness filters deep within my soul Always there as something I have to feel For where you are is where I can be whole
Living this life is somehow too surreal Because I am here and not there with you For now, Mistress Fate has taken control And I wait for love’s crescendo to play As this sadness meanders on through me
My darling, please tell me what I should do Where do I find the will to make the day As in Fate’s twisted hand, I have no clue Somehow for your love, I will find a way
Whilst sadness lingers there for me to see I know it’s you who holds my destiny
Oh! Mr. Best, you’re very bad And all the world shall know it; Your base behaviour shall be sung By me, a tunefull Poet.– You used to go to Harrowgate Each summer as it came, And why I pray should you refuse To go this year the same?–
The way’s as plain, the road’s as smooth, The Posting not increased; You’re scarcely stouter than you were, Not younger Sir at least.–
If e’er the waters were of use Why now their use forego? You may not live another year, All’s mortal here below.–
It is your duty Mr Best To give your health repair. Vain else your Richard’s pills will be, And vain your Consort’s care.
But yet a nobler Duty calls You now towards the North. Arise ennobled–as Escort Of Martha Lloyd stand forth.
She wants your aid–she honours you With a distinguished call. Stand forth to be the friend of her Who is the friend of all.–
Take her, and wonder at your luck, In having such a Trust. Her converse sensible and sweet Will banish heat and dust.–
So short she’ll make the journey seem You’ll bid the Chaise stand still. T’will be like driving at full speed From Newb’ry to Speen hill.–
Convey her safe to Morton’s wife And I’ll forget the past, And write some verses in your praise As finely and as fast.
But if you still refuse to go I’ll never let your rest, Buy haunt you with reproachful song Oh! wicked Mr. Best!–
Jane Austen Born: 16 December 1775, Hampshire, England Nationality: English Died: 18 July 1817, Hampshire, England
Austen was a novelist and poet best known for her six major novels, which interpret, comment upon, and critique the English landed gentry of the late 18th century. Austen’s plots explored the dependence of women on making a good marriage in the pursuit of social standing, respectability, and economic security. Austen’s use of irony, realism, and social commentary has earned acclaim among critics and scholars alike. Her books were published anonymously in her lifetime and Austen gained greater status after her death. Her novels have rarely been out of print
My place of safety behind sunglasses As they shield my eyes away from your gaze I can see the truth of you as it passes
In the snide comments that come to reveal The new reality of what you call love And the agony you want me to feel In darkness, it’s not even a kind of
For I have seen what you cannot conceal From behind my shades that is truth, I see No more shall your lies in my heart amaze As when the beauty of love surpasses As what you want there is no kind of love
Behind shades, the truth set my heart free As no tears cry for what can never be
Thistle and darnell and dock grew there, And a bush, in the corner, of may, On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake, While the birds went twittering by, And nobody there my lone to share But Nicholas Nye.
Nicholas Nye was lean and gray, Lame of leg and old, More than a score of donkey’s years He had been since he was foaled; He munched the thistles, purple and spiked, Would sometimes stoop and sigh, And turn to his head, as if he said, “Poor Nicholas Nye!”
Alone with his shadow he’d drowse in the meadow, Lazily swinging his tail, At break of day he used to bray,– Not much too hearty and hale; But a wonderful gumption was under his skin, And a clean calm light in his eye, And once in a while; he’d smile:– Would Nicholas Nye.
Seem to be smiling at me, he would, From his bush in the corner, of may,– Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn, Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray; And over the grass would seem to pass ‘Neath the deep dark blue of the sky, Something much better than words between me And Nicholas Nye.
But dusk would come in the apple boughs, The green of the glow-worm shine, The birds in nest would crouch to rest, And home I’d trudge to mine; And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew, Asking not wherefore nor why, Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post, Old Nicholas Nye
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
Three and thirty birds there stood In an elder in a wood; Called Melmillo — flew off three, Leaving thirty in the tree; Called Melmillo — nine now gone, And the boughs held twenty-one; Called Melmillo — and eighteen Left but three to nod and preen; Called Melmillo — three–two–one– Now of birds were feathers none.
Then stole slim Melmillo in To that wood all dusk and green, And with lean long palms outspread Softly a strange dance did tread; Not a note of music she Had for echoing company; All the birds were flown to rest In the hollow of her breast; In the wood — thorn, elder willow — Danced alone — lone danced Melmillo
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
A gathering of grey at the end of the day And I listen to the jasmine sipping the rain As I drink a chilled white wine I watch the summer rain drizzle from the tiles Refreshing the climbers on the trellis Their leaves thirsty from a hot day Softly falling drips and drops As I bid my garden goodnight
In the morning the rain has gone The light of the sun shining on vibrant green Making dark shadows a cool space for sparrows Their black eyes watching with caution The dish fill in time for breakfast From the deck table I see the flurry of brown feathers Chitter-chat and flutter over the seeds and nuts And the stillness of the raven on the shed roof Content to chew over the bacon A lovely sight on a summer’s day
Crashing thunder echoes through the night Blue light dances in the distant sky Like strangers coming into our sight And the clouds roar tempest from on high A shard of light sets the grass on fire As we watch through the old windowpane Another flash and another pyre For the gods are at war in the rain
Searing rage it’s one hell of a fight While we cuddle close, just you and I And here we cower out of the light As holy tempers rage as they fly For in their battle the gods won’t tire The end of days with storms so insane Recalling legends sung to a lyre For the gods are at war in the rain
Structure: Three quatrains and a couplet Meter: Pentameter or Decasyllabic Rhyme Scheme: aabb cccc ddee ff
Example
Morning Alarm by JezzieG
As the day begins breath deep a few times And listen to the sound of the wind chimes As the eyes soften to see the new day Before the birds waken to lead the way
Now limber up with a yawning stretch out Before touching the toes or there about Gently does it without a fear or doubt For the today, body and mind need clout
And the will doesn’t always come from coffee If only, how simple then life would be But when you are ready go make a cup And let the muse know you’re awake and up
But first things first go turn off the alarm For that incessant beeping has no charm
Silver flow the streams from Colos to Erui In the green fields of Lebennin! Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea The white lilies sway, And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin In the green fields of Lebennin, In the wind from the Sea!
JRR Tolkien Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa Nationality: English Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England
Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings”. He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings”. Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature
Solomon’s cat a mythical beast dark inside clichés and verse in a book of form writing a dirty story in a journalist’s handbook for a year and a day love’s serenade on a violin echoes among the trees of an English garden
O Germany, pale mother! How soiled you are As you sit among the peoples. You flaunt yourself Among the besmirched.
The poorest of your sons Lies struck down. When his hunger was great. Your other sons Raised their hands against him. This is notorious.
With their hands thus raised, Raised against their brother, They march insolently around you And laugh in your face. This is well known.
In your house Lies are roared aloud. But the truth Must be silent. Is it so?
Why do the oppressors praise you everywhere, The oppressed accuse you? The plundered Point to you with their fingers, but The plunderer praises the system That was invented in your house!
Whereupon everyone sees you Hiding the hem of your mantle which is bloody With the blood Of your best sons.
Hearing the harangues which echo from your house, men laugh. But whoever sees you reaches for a knife As at the approach of a robber.
O Germany, pale mother! How have your sons arrayed you That you sit among the peoples A thing of scorn and fear!
Bertolt Brecht Born: 10 February 1898, Augsburg, Germany Nationality: German Died: 14 August 1956, East Berlin, East Germany
Brecht was a theatre practitioner, playwright, and poet. He had his first successes as a playwright in Munich during the Weimar Republic and moved to Berlin in 1924. During his time in Berlin, he wrote “The Threepenny Opera” with Kurt Weill and began a life-long collaboration with the composer Hanns Eisler
I listen to you whisper on the breeze In echoes of other suns going down Scattered under the shedding autumn trees Amongst the dancing of gold, red, and brown I sit for a moment taking my ease
Recalling times we sat in the dim light Watching the sky turn to that burning red Yet everything seemed so vibrant and bright I hear the whispers of love that you said That never fades in this, a long, good night
In the trees, I’m blessed by thinking of you Precious moments money can never buy Possessions can’t keep me this close to you The things you left behind just make me cry For it is your sweet love that I value
We’ll live again the time we knew before, a place where only love can touch the soul, as on an eagle’s wings we swoop and soar, once more, my dearest love, we can be whole. Ev’ry embrace shall take us to our place and write the precious words in amber sands to honour love divine in all its grace, while walking to the night as it demands. And there beneath the violet moon, so rare, I’ll ask you from my knee to be my wife, to stay with me in this old place we share, and once again, I offer you, my life. On this sweet night in our love’s purple haze where we belong until the end of days
Glory be to God for dappled thing – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim, Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings, Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) Well swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him
‘What is the world, O soldiers? It is I: I, this incessant snow, This northern sky; Soldiers, this solitude Through which we go Is I.’
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
Some days I need to remember those things The things that give my soul the strength to heal Allow myself to feel the joy life brings
To take time out, listen as nature sings Away from keyboards and the glaring screen A gentle reminder, a note-to-self It’s never too late to take that one day In the arms of nature to simply feel
For life isn’t about making cash wealth Spiritual wealth can’t be a might have been When time out is good for the mental health With memories of the beauty I’ve seen
So when I’m quiet I’ve not gone away It’s time to hear what nature has to say
The art of a spy deceiving their too-curious eyes Takes a pinch of cunning and a simple wily disguise But in the reality, I just wanted to break free Escaping the confines of pond life to swim in the sea They all said I couldn’t I was just a bright orange koi I’d stand out a mile and bigger fish I’d surely annoy They would beat me all up and leave me alone there bleeding But I’m a koi, a goldfish of superior breeding I’m not a stupid fish so while I am swimming, I think There must be a way to fake it out there in the big drink Then pow and bam it came to me like a flashing great spark A fish like me can only be a mahoosive great shark
Definition: Attraction – n. the action or power of evoking interest in or liking for someone or something
Form: Etheree
lust captures the eye first seeing skin deep instant attraction but the heart wants more the wild beauty within like a slow Sunday morning where desire can stop to linger for the attraction of heart and soul stays after carnal yearnings fizzle out
ee cummings Born: 14 October 1894, Massachusetts, USA Nationality: American Died: 3 September 1962, New Hampshire, USA
ee cummings was a poet, painter, playwright, and author. With an oeuvre of 2900 poems, two autobiographical novels, several essays and four plays he is regarded as one of the most important American poets of the 20th century. Cummings is associated with modernist free-form poetry with much of his work composed of idiosyncratic syntax and lower-case spelling for poetic expression.
Cummings was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts to a well-known Unitarian couple. His father was a professor at Harvard University and later a well-known minister of South Congregational Church (Unitarian) in Boston. Cummings’ mother loved to spend time with her children, playing games with Cummings and his sister. From an early age, his creative gifts were supported by both his parents. He wrote poems and drew as a child as well as often playing out with the other children in the neighbourhood. Throughout his life, Cummings expressed transcendental leanings and his journals are replete with references to ‘le bon Dieu’ as well as prayers for inspiration for poetry and artwork.
Wanting to be a poet from childhood Cummings wrote poetry daily from the age of 8., exploring various forms. Graduating from Harvard University with a BA in 1915 Cummings received his MA from the university in 1916. Whilst studying at Harvard his interest in Modern poetry that ignored grammar and syntax evolved, and his aim was the use of dynamic language. After his graduation, Cummings took employment with a book dealer.
With the First World War in Europe, Cummings enlisted in the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps in 1917. He befriended William Slater Brown on the boat to France. Cummings and Brown didn’t receive an assignment for five weeks due to a clerical error so spent their time exploring Paris. Cummings fell in love with the city and would return there throughout his life. The two writers sent letters home during their service that attracted the attention of military censors. They preferred the company of French soldiers to that of fellow ambulance drivers and openly expressed anti-war opinions. Five months after Cummings started his assignment, he and William Slater Brown were arrested by the French military on suspicion of espionage and undesirable activities. For fourteen weeks the pair were held at Dépôt de Triage, a military detention centre in La Ferté-Macé, Orne, Normandy
Imprisoned with other detainees in a large room, Cummings’ father was unable to obtain his release through diplomatic channels. In December 1917 he wrote a letter to President Woodrow Wilson and was released on 19 December 1917, Brown was released two months later. Cummings used his prison experience as the basis for the novel “The Enormous Room” (1922). Cummings returned to the USA on New Year’s Day 1918. Later that year he was drafted into the army and served at Camp Devens, Massachusetts, until November 1918.
In 1921 Cummings returned to Paris and lived there for two years before returning to New York. He published his collection “Tulips and Chimneys” in 1923 and his particular use of grammar and syntax was evident. The book was heavily cut by the editor. In 1925 Cummings published “XLI Poems”. It is with these two collections that Cummings gained his reputation as an avant-garde poet. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, Cummings returned to Paris several times and travelled throughout Europe. In 1931 he travelled to the Soviet Union and wrote of his experiences in “Eimi” (1933). Cummins also travelled to North Africa and Mexico. From 1924-1927 he worked as an essayist and portrait artist for Vanity Fair
Cummings’s parents were involved in a car crash in 1926; his mother survived but was severely injured. His father’s death profoundly affected Cummings who entered a new period in his creative life focussing on more important aspects of life in his poetry. He started this new stage of his writing career with “my father moved through dooms of love,” a tribute to his father.
Cummings spent the last years of his life travelling, undertaking speaking engagements, and spending time at his home, Joy Farm, in New Hampshire. He died of a stroke in 1962
I had come to the house, in a cave of trees, Facing a sheer sky. Everything moved, — a bell hung ready to strike, Sun and reflection wheeled by.
When the bare eyes were before me And the hissing hair, Held up at a window, seen through a door. The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead Formed in the air.
This is a dead scene forever now. Nothing will ever stir. The end will never brighten it more than this, Nor the rain blur.
The water will always fall, and will not fall, And the tipped bell make no sound. The grass will always be growing for hay Deep on the ground.
And I shall stand here like a shadow Under the great balanced day, My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind, And does not drift away.
Louise Bogan Born: 11 August 1897, Maine, USA Nationality: American Died: 4 February 1970, New York, USA
Bogan was a poet. Appointed the Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945. she was the first woman to hold the office. Bogan wrote poetry, friction, and criticism and was a regular poetry reviewer for 2The New Yorker.”
I look back and see them all smile at me As I smile back, I know I must forget Never again can I look back and see
The faces that guided me to my birth Yet I know they are always at my side In both moments of sorrow and of mirth And while my eyes can’t see they’re my soul’s guide
As they push me onward against the tide Blessed spirits as this life’s journey I take I wonder if they were making a bet On me reaching the point of destiny To find my fated place with Mother Earth
So hard to see when my heart is an ache My bad choices, now better ones to make
Similar to Haiku the Senryu follows many of the standard rules of Haiku without the reference to nature.
A senryu consists of three lines in whatever haiku pattern is preferred by the poet (most common 5-7-5). The subject matter is often related to human behaviours so may involve romance, irony, and relationships. As with the haiku, the main goal of the senryu is to capture a moment.
Example
Senryu Sequence by Jezzie G
Across the sea Your words dried my tears My sweet solace
Lonely tears On blades of fear Can I?
Curling fern Embrace my heart once more Remind me
Broken wings Yearning to freely fly The skies of dreams
Rolling waves Rippling over shores of pain As eyes open
Love, sweet love, A crossing point of time And I see you
I’m living, breathing with my senses dead So lost in fear I’ve lost myself instead
A nobody; invisible to eyes Now that love isn’t blind and I can see Your words of love were just a sly disguise
The sweet bait in a narcissistic trap And for far too long you had me deceived Indeed you had me there under your wrap Not seeing truth of what should be believed
In all that time I was taking your crap While in your lies my esteem was relieved But did you think I would not recognise There was a better place for me to be When being with you can only bring dread
The reruns of movies play on the brain Yet they’re memories buried in my head Playing again and filling me with dread And I wonder the ‘I must be insane’ For my body is reliving the pain Curled up on the floor hoping I am dead With my face weeping out its tears in red My spirit dying with nothing to gain
The spirits are dancing here and there Where my bruised senses rest to heal For she is the beauty born of my despair Burning the midnight oil so I can feel O willow tree speak to me like you care O lady let me lie here a moment to steal Embraced in your tendrils beside the stream My dryad of mystery and dream
“Once…Once upon a time…” Over and over again, Martha would tell us her stories, In the hazel glen.
Hers were those clear gray eyes You watch, and the story seems Told by their beautifulness Tranquil as dreams.
She’d sit with her two slim hands Clasped round her bended knees; While we on our elbows lolled, And stared at ease.
Her voice and her narrow chin, Her grave small lovely head, Seemed half the meaning Of the words she said.
“Once…Once upon a time…” Like a dream you dream in the night, Fairies and gnomes stole out In the leaf-green light.
And her beauty far away Would fade, as her voice ran on, Till hazel and summer sun And all were gone:–
All fordone and forgot; And like clouds in the height of the sky, Our hearts stood still in the hush Of an age gone by
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
Come, let us tell the weeds in ditches How we are poor, who once had riches, And lie out in the sparse and sodden Pastures that the cows have trodden, The while an autumn night seals down The comforts of the wooden town.
Come, let us counsel some cold stranger How we sought safety but loved danger. So, with stiff walls about us, we Chose this more fragile boundary: Hills, where light poplars, the firm oak, Loosen into a little smoke.
Louise Bogan Born: 11 August 1897, Maine, USA Nationality: American Died: 4 February 1970, New York, USA
Bogan was a poet. Appointed the Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945. she was the first woman to hold the office. Bogan wrote poetry, friction, and criticism and was a regular poetry reviewer for 2The New Yorker.”
Michael Rosen Born: 7 May 1946, Harrow, UK Nationality: English
Rosen is a children’s author and poet; he has written over 140 books. He was the Children’s Laureate from June 2007 to June 2009. He has also worked as a political columnist and TV presenter. He was born into a Jewish family with roots in Poland, Russia, and Romania and family connections to the Arbeter Ring and the Bund. His middle name is honour of Wayne C Booth who was billeted with his father at the US army university in Shrivenham Oxfordshire.
Rosen’s father was born in Massachusetts, and from two years old grew up in the East End of London. His father was a professor of English at the Institute of Education in London and published extensively on the teaching of English to children.
Rosen’s parents met in 1935 at the age of 15 when both were members of the Young Communist League. As a young couple, they settled in Pinner, Middlesex, England. They eventually left the Communist Party of Great Britain in 1957. Rosen never joined; however, it is this background that influenced his childhood. At about eleven years old Rosen began attending Harrow Weald County Grammar School. He also attended the state schools in Pinner and Harrow and Watford Grammar School for Boys. By this time Rosen’s mother was working for the BBC, producing a programme that featured poetry, she encouraged Rosen to write for it and some of his writing was submitted.
Rosen graduated from Oxford in 1969 and became a trainee at the BBC. His work included WALRUS (write and learn, read, understand, speak), a series for BBC Schools television, and scriptwriting for a children’s reading series Sam on Boffs’ Island. He found working for the BBC frustrating and limiting to his creativity.
Rosen made no secret of his left-wing politics when originally interviewed for a post with the BBC, however in 1972 he was asked to go freelance, effectively being sacked along with several others that failed the BBC’s vetting procedures at the time. A practice only revealed in 1985 and when Rosen asked to access his files, they had been destroyed.
“Mind Your Own Business,” Rosen’s first book of children’s poetry was published in 1974. He established himself with subsequent collections of humorous verse for children such as “Wouldn’t You Like to Know,” “You Tell Me,” and “Quick, Let’s Get Out of Here.”
Rosen was influential in opening access to poetry for children, through his own work and with anthologies such as “Culture Shock.” One of the first poets to visit schools throughout the UK, Australia, and Canada his tours enthused and engaged children about poetry in our times. Rosen gained an MA in Children’s Literature in 1993 from the University of Reading, followed by a Ph.D. from the University of North London.
A well-established broadcaster, presenting a wide range of documentary features on British radio, Rosen is the presenter of BBC Radio 4’s Word of Mouth, a regular magazine programme looking at the English language and how it is used. He was given the Exceptional Award for the Best Children’s Illustrated Nooks by the English Association in 2004 for “Sad Book”. It deals with bereavement and follows “Carrying the Elephant: A Memoir of Love and Loss” (2002) after the death of his son Eddied aged 18.
Rosen collaborated with his wife, Emma Williams, in 2011 to produce the film “Under the Crates” with Rosen providing the original screenplay. It premiered at the Rio Cinema in Dalston, London in April 2011 as part of the East End Film Festival
During the Covid-19 pandemic, Rosen was admitted to hospital in March 2020. He was moved to the ICU and back to the ward. He was again moved to ICU and after 47 days he returned to the ward, finally leaving the hospital in June 2020. In the following March Rosen released the book “Many Different Kinds of Love: A Story of Life, Death, and the NHS” telling his story of being hospitalized with Covid-19 the previous year.
The News by Michael Rosen
Here is The News: ‘Two incredible shoes. Two incredible shoes. That’s The News.
When it rains they walk down drains.
They glow in the snow.
They grizzle in a drizzle.
They sneeze in a breeze.
They get warm in a storm.
They go soggy when it’s foggy.
They’ve even hissed in a mist.
But (sad to say) there came a terrible frost. This is what happened: they got lost.’
This is The News. Two incredible shoes. Two incredible shoes. That was The News.
Arianrhod our lady of the moon Bran the Blessed mighty ruler Cerridwyn goddess of inspiration Dylan father of the seas Evnissyen bad-tempered brother of Bran Five divine names of the Welsh pantheon Gwion Bach gracious guide of spirit Hail to thee as you wander among us Inspire our path through mortality Joyous in our living Kindred souls in the realms of immortality Llew Llaw Gyffes and Blodeuwedd Mabon the god of lovers Nurturing through nature Offa the African king Pryderi son of Pwyll Quietly stolen from his mother Rhiannon queen of death Securing all hell broke out Taliesin god of magic, storyteller, and bard Ultimately these are the names Valleys echo in song as Welsh mountains reveal their power Excited Yes, this is the Zenith of the motherland
Your hand is always there, wrapped around mine Eternal lover still here by my side Your gentle touch that always spoke divine
I remind myself it’s always been mine For you have never turned away from me Not even when our words were crossed with rage Instead our love grew infinitely wide Death, how she knows she cannot stop its flow
For we belong as one in every age In every lifetime our love waits to be Mortal or immortal there is no cage For our love demands our spirits are free
Now, when the veil is thin, that’s how I know In the universe of love we’re the glow
The years keep passing and time cannot stand still I wonder how the warmth of your love holds me Flowing through my body as it always will Like spring sunshine gently warms the early bee I think of your kiss; how it made my heart thrill And how you chose to love me and let me see You, my spark of life that would my heart fulfil Your passion and desire were my destiny
And the years go by yet my heart feels the same The eternal urge to hold you close and near And tantra of the night breathing out your name The very same urgent breath that stakes your claim On my body, heart, soul; oh my precious dear ‘Tis your love took my wild soul and made it tame
An old song on playing remembers it all Of falling in love, but always incomplete As you cried your tears that I could never meet But I would hold you until he came to call All those weeks and months he was having a ball As he left you behind with nothing so sweet But I’d comfort you with no thought of retreat As my heart had already begun to fall
In love with you; knowing you never loved me You just wanted somewhere to cry it all out So you let me believe our loving could be But still in your heart you could never be free And I knew that without a shadow of doubt Cruel love blinded me so I could not see
I long for the twilight and summer dancing The closeness of you as stars begin to shine While we whisper caught in the sweet romancing Like the night we first kissed and you became mine And in our whispers, I knew I was chancing Rejection but still I loved you as divine Oh how I long for that, the night we first kissed For it is the touch of your lips I have missed
For the memories I play our songs tonight To feel you here, floating in my arms again To dance in the garden because it feels right As I close my eyes, a moment of respite We danced whatever be it wind or the rain And to the stars I whisper “You’re my delight”
“Touch me gently and you’ll find my desire Kiss me there, baby and ignite my fire Close your eyes and play my skin like a lyre Go gently baby let my lust inspire Your thoughts and deeds into our passion’s pyre Let my senses with your hunger conspire As you lead me like a maid to her sire Into that moment where there is no higher”
As in this art of loving she taught me To make her feel this so wanton and free Taking time releasing passions to be To sip her slowly as if drinking tea So hot my lips burned with her tender she And in her pleasure my own I could see
Where now is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing? Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing? They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow; The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow. Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning, Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
JRR Tolkien Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa Nationality: English Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England
Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings.” He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings.” Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature
Jezzie G 