General Chat

Warning!!
by Jenny Joseph.

When I am an old woman
I shall wear a purple with a red hat that doesnt go
and doesnt suit me
and I shall spend my pension on brandy
and summer gloves
and satin sandals,and say we have no money for butter
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops
and press alarm bells
and run my stick along railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain,
and pick flowers in other peoples gardens
and learn how to spit...
you can wear awful shirts,and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages in one go,
or only bread and pickles for a week,
and hoard pens and pencils and beermats
and things in a boxes
but now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent,and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children,
we must have friends for dinner and read papers
but may be I ought to practise a little now
so people who know me are not too shocked
and surprised,when suddenly I am old
and start to wear purple...............

Jean x

Im with you Lisa - very sad but lovely poem Was that the one in 4 weddings and a funeral?

There must be fairy miners
Just underneath the mould,
Such wondrous quaint designers
Who live in caves of gold.

They take the shining metals,
And beat them into shreds,
And mould them into petals,
To make the flowers' heads.

Sometimes they melt the flowers,
To tiny seed like pearls,
And store them up in bowers
For little boys and girls.

And still a tiny fan turns
Above a forge of gold;
To keep with fairy lanterns,
The world from growing old.

Buttercups
by Wilfrid Thorley

Love's Philosophy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another's being mingle --
Why not I with thine?
See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea; --
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Ann - for you

I must go down to the sea's again, to the loney sea
and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by:
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the
running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

John Masefield

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

This one is sad but I have always loved reading it.


Graves of Infants
John Clare 1793-1864

Infants' gravemounds are steps of angels, where
Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose.
God is their parent, so they need no tear;
He takes them to his bosom from earth's woes-
A bud their lifetime and a flower their close.
Their spirits are the Iris of the skies,
Needing no prayer; a sunset's happy close.
Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes;
Flow'rs weep in dew-drops o'er them, and the gale gently sighs.

Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower,
Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye.
Each death
Was toll'd on flowers as summer gales went by;
They bow'd and trembled, yet they heaved no sigh;
And the sun smiled to show the end was well.
Infants have naught to weep for ere they die,
All prayers are needless, beads they need not tell;
White flowers their mourners are,
Nature their passing bell.

The Last Leaf
by Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-1894

I saw him once before,
As he pass'd by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er ground
With his cane

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said
'They are gone'.

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago-
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-corner'd hat
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
in the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

Dont you lot out there like poems then eh? If not then why not say why I hate poetry?
Sue

Footsteps of Angels


When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Arrow And The Song
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

also "I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the skies....." can't remember who wrote that one

Wordsworth - I wandered lonely as a cloud...........

I love reading poetry and my favourite poem at the moment, although i have a few is Loveliest of Trees the Cherry:-

Loveliest of trees the cherry now, is filled with bloom
along the bough, and stands along the woodland ride,
wearing white for Eastertide.
A E Houseman


Sue