My autumn lady come take up my hand As we let go of summer and its light With the crops all gathered in from the land
The summer has provided for us well Now our legacy shines in red and gold Before the long days within winter’s spell The time is all ours for love to behold
Let us make the stories for them to tell As echoed desires from a time long past For now, the days are equal to the night Our destiny has come to here unfold In the mystic ways that were always planned
Gone are our days of loving wild and fast Now we lean back into golden repast
Oh, my love If you were at the level of my madness, You would cast away your jewelry, Sell all your bracelets, And sleep in my eyes
Nizar Qabbani Born: 21 March 1923, Damascus, Syria Nationality: Syrian Died: 30 April 1998, London, UK
Qabbani was a diplomat, poet, writer, and publisher. His poetry is best known for combining simplicity and elegance to explore the themes of love, eroticism, feminism, Arab nationalism, and religion. Qabbani is among the most revered and respected contemporary poets from the Arab world and is considered Syria’s national poet
The knitting needles were clicking all night Insomnia making while drinking tea With a loyal doggo for company The TV flickers with non-stop blue light The news is all wrong and nothing feels right Flicking a button something else to see Some old soap or a documentary On just another insomniac night
On the morning walk doggo looks a sight A special gift for being friends with me Keeping me from my darkest fears that be But his face is not of purest delight I can but hope my doggo forgives me
All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer, for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.
In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields, dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats. All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;
and after noon’s heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres, gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack, and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn, three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning.
Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns. Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.
When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze, one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning, led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond, and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin,
and lay the shotgun’s muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear, and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave, shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you, where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument.
For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs, yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter frost heaved your bones in the ground – old toilers, soil makers:
O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.
Donald Hall Born: 20 September 1928, Connecticut, USA Nationality: American Died: 23 June 2018, New Hampshire, USA
Hall was a poet, writer, editor, and literary critic. The author of over 50 books across varying genres he was a graduate of Phillips Exeter Academy, Harvard, and Oxford. He was the first poetry editor for The Paris Review and was known for interviewing poets and writers about their craft.
From outside our bedroom, I heard her cry As I sat beside her, I asked her why
While I laid my hand softly on her arm And her body racked out another sob What had caused my darling this painful harm
In a gulp of breath, her mother had called How she had failed to live up to their dreams My heart is breaking I was so appalled My rage withheld, as I wiped her tear streams
She repeated the words that made me scald And I let my chest absorb her sad screams For in this moment that hate cannot rob Our love; it hurts the same to hear the lie But in our love, we ease the hurt and harm
Heartbreak hotel where my soul sings the Blues Blues the music to bring me some solace Solace found in a glass without a muse Muse, please return to me in this place Place me in the middle of all those songs Songs that sting my eyes with the empty tears Tears cried when nothing is right in the wrong Wrong place to be to face all the dark fears Fears that never help to turn on the light Light locked out of my darkened mind and room Room to think and room to cry out tonight Tonight, without you I see only gloom Gloomy dreams that bring my soul to its ache Ache, and ache some more, in this my heartbreak
Xavier is a Latinx poet, author, spoken word artist, editor, and LGBT+ activist from the Bushwick area of Brooklyn. Once an underage hustler and drug dealer, through surviving hate crime, Xavier emerged from the East Village, Manhattan art scene, the ball culture scene and Nuyorican movement as a successful poet, writer, and advocate for gay youth and Latinx gay literature.
Born in Brooklyn, New York, Xavier’s father abandoned his Ecuadorian mother when he found out she was pregnant. Xavier was also a victim of child abuse by a relative. He grew up in Bushwick during the 1970s when it was mainly an immigrant community. He attended a white elementary school in Queens where he was subject to racism. Xavier was kicked out by his mother at age 16 when he came out as gay and survived as an underage hustler. With strict rules, he returned home and graduated from Grover Cleveland High School before attending St John’s University for several years receiving an associate degree in communications. Xavier worked at an LGBTQ bookstore, A Different Light, where he found his passion for writing and turned his life around.
In 1997 Xavier self-published the chapbook “Pier Queen” and in 1998, with his friend, Willi Ninja, he created the House of Xavier and the Glam Slam, an annual art event held at the Nuyorican Poets Café. The fusion of ball culture and poetry slam featured categories such as Best Erotic Poem in Sexy Underwear or Lingerie, Best Love Poem in Fire Engine Red, and Best Verbal Vogue. In 1999 Xavier’s semi-autobiographical novel “Christ Like” was published by Painted Leaf Press. Despite a limited run, it was nominated for a Lambda Literary award in the Small Press category and was reprinted in 2009 by Rebel Satori Press as a revised 10th-anniversary edition.
Xavier hosted the Lambada Literary Awards in 2001. He was one of the leading forces behind “Words of Comfort,” a poetry benefit held after 9/11. Xavier’s poem “September Song” was included as part of the National September 11 Memorial and Museum website and later appeared in his 2002 poetry collection “Americano”
In the 2000s Xavier appeared twice on Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO, he also guest hosted IN The Life on PBS with Laverne Cox. Xavier also appeared in the Wolfgang Busch documentary How Do I Look and co-starred in the film The Ski Trip aired on LOGO. In 2005 Xavier edited the anthology “Bullets & Butterflies: Queer Spoken Word Poetry” and earned a second Lambda Literary Award in the Anthologies category. In 2008 he edited “Mariposas: A Modern Anthology of Queer Latino Poetry.”
In 2017 PEN America invited Xavier to read his poem “Americano” at the Writer’s Resist rally in protest of the Trump administration. Also that year a weeklong exhibit celebrating the 20th anniversary of his collection “Pier Queen” was held.
Xavier was part of the Saks Fifth Avenue Stonewall Inn Gives It Back Initiative in 2019 for the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Inn riots. Xavier was invited to share his poetry at the United Nations in 2018 as part of The International Symposium on Cultural Diplomacy. He shared a poem about gun control and after the criticism that followed, he was uninvited back as a speaker.
Xavier was attacked by about 20 men in Bushwick, Brooklyn in October 2005. Among the rumours about the attack, some suggested it stemmed from his giving permission to the Latin Kings gang to publish his poem on the subject of police brutality “Waiting for God.” Xavier was diagnosed with an acoustic neuroma following the attack and underwent surgery. The tumour was benign but he suffered partial facial paralysis for a time. In 2015 the neuroma returned and Xavier underwent successful radiosurgery.
The Death of Art by Emanuel Xavier
“Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.” -critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry “the death of art.”
I am not a poet. I want to be rich and buy things for my family. Besides, I am sort of popular and can honestly say I’ve had a great sex life.
I am not a poet. Georgia O’ Keefe paintings do absolutely nothing for me. I do not feel oppressed or depressed and no longer have anything to say about the President.
I am not a poet. I do not like being called an “activist” because it takes away from those that are out on the streets protesting and fighting for our rights.
I am not a poet. I eat poultry and fish and suck way too much dick to be considered a vegetarian.
I am not a poet. I would most likely give my ass up in prison before trying to save it with poetry . . . and I’d like it! Heck, I’d probably be inspired.
I am not a poet. I may value peace but I will not simply use a pen to unleash my anger. I would fuck somebody up if I had to.
I am not a poet. I may have been abused and had a difficult life but I don’t want pity. I believe laughter and love heals.
I am not a poet. I am not dying. I write a lot about AIDS and how it has affected my life but, despite the rumours, I am not positive. Believe it or not, weight loss amongst sexually active gay men could still be a choice.
I am not a poet. I do not get Kerouac or honestly care much for Bukowski.
I am not a poet. I don’t spend my weekends reading and writing. I like to go out and party. I like to have a few cocktails but I do not have a drinking problem regardless of what borough, city or state I may wake up in.
I am not a poet. I don’t need drugs to open up my imagination. I’ve been a dealer and had a really bad habit but that was long before I started writing.
I am not a poet. I can seriously only tolerate about half an hour of spoken word before I start tuning out and thinking about my grocery list or what my cats are up to.
I am not a poet. I only do poetry events if I know there will be cute guys there and I always carry business cards.
I am not a poet according to the scholars and academics and Harold Bloom. I only write to masturbate my mind. After all, fucking yourself is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.
I am not a poet. I am only trying to get attention and convince myself that poetry can save lives when my words simply and proudly contribute to “the death of art.”
Thou touched this heart of mine with moonlit song as I redeemed my soul in love divine, and sipped thy blood that is the blesséd wine my pledge, renewed, to serve thee stays strong. Oh Goddess, Queen of dark and light, I pray for eyes to see and strength to understand the path I follow, guided by thy hand, in thy embrace my spirit comes thy way. And when I falter, falling on the ground I hear thy voice calling, yet I know not when I feel thy love that lifts me up again to fill my heart with joy and hope profound. The Goddess, Maiden, Mother of the skies and Crone of Wisdom, can thee hear my sighs?
Men loved wholly beyond wisdom Have the staff without the banner. Like a fire in a dry thicket Rising within women’s eyes Is the love men must return. Heart, so subtle now, and trembling, What a marvel to be wise., To love never in this manner! To be quiet in the fern Like a thing gone dead and still, Listening to the prisoned cricket Shake its terrible dissembling Music in the granite hill
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 “The New Yorker.”
Golden liquor shimmers in the late morning sun a whiskey before noon perhaps it’s too soon but whose to judge but me as I ponder another evening meal for one the warm feeling slips through my throat a subtle reminder of other nights of cooking lamb curry eaten by candlelight soft jazz setting a rhythm enticing and inviting her and me to our bed and a warm feeling slipping slowly through my throat diced lamb and sliced onions simmer in the slow cooker spices scenting the air lingering in my throat – I’ll freeze the other half
automated reactions the nervous twitch sparks electric through my nerves yet hands and words like wheels spinning without revelation of feelings and emotions making jokes at my own expense my lips on autopilot before my thoughts jam the cogs matter over mind say never mind it doesn’t matter as pain erupts in varying explosions inside my soul is stranded on the platform of Heartbreak Station checking the time for the next clockwork train to any destination anywhere and nowhere in particular away from here I no longer care a ticket to a new destination some place away from you
The darkest winter cannot hide Her light, even when the coldest winds begin to blow Her love shall shelter me from drifting snow She is the star to bring my eyes their sight. It is Her hand that leads me through the night, and it’s Her kiss that leaves my heart aglow, as in Her love, my soul has come to know, it is Her joy that brings me my delight. Alas my eyes are blinded to Her face my mortal body imperfectly weak I wonder if Her beauty is now lost but still, my saddened heart can feel Her grace, and now forever I shall always seek Her joy no matter the personal cost.
With a gentle touch to placate the beast That is ticking time to end silent fear Of ashen streets lined with ashen faces The only words those of a praying priest As the steady hand to the wire draws near Inside a soldier’s mind shakes in places What if it is blue instead of the red But none in the crowd is thinking of that If he gets it wrong, they will all be dead All that will remain of him is his hat It’s red
Little soul, little perpetually undressed one, Do now as I bid you, climb The shelf-like branches of the spruce tree; Wait at the top, attentive, like A sentry or look-out. He will be home soon; It behooves you to be Generous. You have not been completely Perfect either; with your troublesome body You have done things you shouldn’t Discuss in poems. Therefore Call out to him over the open water, over the bright Water With your dark song, with your grasping, Unnatural song–passionate, Like Maria Callas. Who Wouldn’t want you? Whose most demonic appetite Could you possibly fail to answer? Soon He will return from wherever he goes in the Meantime, Suntanned from his time away, wanting His grilled chicken. Ah, you must greet him, You must shake the boughs of the tree To get his attention, But carefully, carefully, lest His beautiful face be marred By too many falling needles
Louise Glück Born: 22 April 1943, New York, USA Nationality: American
Glück is a poet, essayist, and winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize for Literature. While in high school she suffered from anorexia nervosa and later overcame the illness. Often described as autobiographical poet Glück’s work is best known for its emotional intensity and for drawing on mythology or nature to reflect modern life
Definition: Colourblind – adj. unable to distinguish certain colours, or (rarely in humans) any colours at all; not prejudiced, discriminating, or distinguishing on the basis of skin colour or race
Form: Lune
all blood runs in red first aider don’t see shades of skin
Considered a difficult form to master, the Sestina was created by Arnaut Daniel, a mathematician, and poet in the twelfth century. It was later adopted by Francesco Petrarch who composed a series of sestinas he called Canzone.
The sestina is composed of seven stanzas. The first six stanzas each have six lines, with end-word of each line falling in a precise mathematical progression. The seventh has only three lines which are a mathematical reflection of the first stanza.
The first stanza defines the following stanzas by setting the words used at the end of each line, ABDCEF are the defining words. They are repeated in the following five stanzas in the following pattern
ABCDEF FAEBDC CFDABE ECBFAD DEACFB BDFECA
The final stanza or envoy uses the same six-word but only in three lines with the even-numbered words descending internally and the odd-numbered words ascending on the outside to give the following pattern
BA DC FE
Example
Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop
September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child beside the Little Marvel Stove, reading the jokes from the almanac, laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears and the rain that beats on the roof of the house were both foretold by the almanac, but only known to a grandmother. The iron kettle sings on the stove. She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It’s time for tea now; but the child is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears dance like mad on the hot black stove, the way the rain must dance on the house. Tidying up, the old grandmother hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac hovers half open above the child, hovers above the old grandmother and her teacup full of dark brown tears. She shivers and says she thinks the house feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove. I know what I know, says the almanac. With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother busies herself about the stove, the little moons fall down like tears from between the pages of the almanac into the flower bed the child has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house
My eyes captured a brief moment of your desire forbidding my heart not to love you and having seen that moment how could I not when to be with you is all I crave without pressure or coercing words nor matchmakers setting it up at that moment, my heart was enslaved
Yet your gentle hand refuses me waving its intent I should go away I don’t understand, confused by your grip with no want to set me free and in your holding me you know I am at your command
I feel the tenderness of your touch demanding I leave my solitude to clutch at the dreams while they’re creating my want for you in my confusion, I don’t know what I should do as your lips whisper “Go away!”
Should I call your bluff and leave? would you stop me with words: “Please don’t” would you command me to make that vow in a lover’s kiss as acceptance of your possession of my soul
The pillar perished is whereto I lent, The strongest stay of mine unquiet mind; The like of it no man again can find From east to west still seeking though he went. To mine unhap! for hap away hath rent Of all my joy the very bark and rind; And I, alas, by chance am thus assigned Dearly to mourn till death do it relent. But since that thus it is by destiny, What can I more but have a woeful heart, My pen in plaint, my voice in woeful cry, My mind in woe, my body full of smart, And I myself myself always to hate Till dreadful death do ease my doleful state?
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
Jezzie G 