Category Archives: POETRY


Day 6
For my last post as Writer of the Week I shall talk about two poets from different eras and different viewpoints, William Blake and T.S. Eliot.
William Blake was an English poet, painter and printmaker, largely unrecognised during his lifetime. Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age.

Blake was an epic poet consciously in the Protestant tradition of Spenser and Milton and not any sort of a mystic.

T.S. Eliot was born in St Louis, Missouri, moved to England in 1914 at the age of 25.
He attracted widespread attention for his poem ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats(1939) is a collection of whimsical poems by T. S. Eliot about feline psychology and sociology.

‘The Waste Land ‘ is a long poem by T.S. Eliot widely regarded as one of the most important poems of the 20th Century and a central work of modernist poetry.

‘The Hollow Man’-
The final stanza
‘This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper



Day 5
W H Auden was an Ehglish-American poet. Auden’s poetry was noted for its stylistic and technical achievement, its engagement with politics, morals, love and religion. He is best known for love poems such as ‘Funeral Blues’, poems on political and social themes such as ‘September 1 1939’ and ‘The Shield of Achilles’, poems on cultural and psychological themes such ‘The Age of Anxiety’ and poems on religious themes such as ‘For the Time Being.’
John Donne was an English poet and cleric in the Church of England. He is considered the pre eminent representative of the metaphysical poets. His works are noted for their strong, sensual style and include sonnets, love poems, religious poems.

‘No Man is an Island’

No man is an island entire of
itself, every man is a piece of
the continent, a part of the main,
if a clod be wasted away by
the sea.
Europe is the less,
As well as if a promontory were
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in
And thereforenever send to know
for whom the bell tolls
It tolls for thee.


Day 4
John Keats was an English Romantic poet, along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite his works having been in publication for only 4 years before his death from tuberculosis at age 25.

A thing of beauty (Endymion)
is a joy forever
its loveliness increases;it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams and health,
and quiet breathing…

Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than
our rhyme…

Lord Byron ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’
the heartthrob of 19th century London. Author of Don Juan,
a satirical novel – in verse that is considered one of the greatest epic poems in English.


Day 3
Another poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

For love, and beauty, and delight
There is no death nor change;
their might
Exceeds our organs, which endure
No light being themselves obscure.

W B Yeats was an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th Century literature, received the 1923 Nobel Prize for Literature. The Second Coming is a poem written by WB Yeats in 1919, The poem uses Christian imagery regarding the Apocalypse and Second Coming allegorically to describe the atmosphere of post-war Europe. It is considered a major work of modern poetry.
Gerard Manley Hopkins is one of the 3 or 4 greatest poets of the Victorian era – the greatest Victorian poet of religion, of nature or of melancholy. He wrote mainly sonnets.

My poem ‘Ode to GM Hopkins’;
Dappled leaves,
the light disperses
into a rainbow.
After the shower,
we greet the day,
how stark the southern sun
unless softened by greenery,
a canopy, to divert its rays.
To play upon the wings
of a butterfly,
a buzz of cicadas,
an antipodean Christmas.


Day 2

Yeats and the Romantics – the theme is the saving transformation that attends some form of humanism – the poem as an alternative world to that of nature.

Some of these poets include Spenser and Milton, Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and Keats on to Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, and William Morris.

Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote the poem ‘Ozymandias’ which deals with the theme of mortality.


I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said -‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert…Near them on the sand

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well – those passions read,

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that feel;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despai
Nothing beside remains, round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

My poem ‘Uluru’ alludes to Ozymandias.



Mysterious as life

Sapphire sky above

Red dust below

The Dreamtime –

No beginning/ no end

Worshipped by the

Anangu people

Not as Ozymandias’

Man-built colossal wreck

Now lying in mortal decay



Off-limits a sacred site

In tune with nature

The planet

The seasons.

You are the Rose of me,❤

“You are the Rose of me,
In you have I lost myself utterly,
Your fragrance, as a breath from Paradise,
About me ever lies;
I crush you to my heart with subtlest ecstasy
And on your lips I live, and in your passionate eyes
You are the Dream of me,
My visions many-footed flit and flee
Beneath the jewelled arches of Life’s grace
But through lone nights and days,
One form I follow, and mine eyes but see
The dear delightful wonder of your love-lit face
You are the Greatness of me,
My thoughts are Beauty shaped exquisitely
To the rare pattern of your loveliness
Exceeding all excess:
And the strange magic of this mystery,
Steals weight from burdened hours, and woe from weariness”

Watch “Killing Me Softly With His Song | Roberta Flack | Lyrics ☾☀” on YouTube

Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,
But rising at thy name doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her “love” for whose dear love I rise and fall


“WHAT SOME ‘BIRDS’ CAN GET FOR ‘2018!’ ” a.k.a. : “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo’s Sister!”

A girl with leopard glasses

Came by one Winter’s Day;

She was a long-haired feline and had-surely come to play!

Her purpose was exploratory – perhaps to find a mate!

Permission to “pet” kitty! Let’s hope I am good bait!

Catnip! It is painless – and brings on many changes.

Well, I’m a bird, so flock with me, my Love – my “chirp” deranges!

Her claws were long and sharp and quick,

But I’ve thick skin – ‘twas just a prick!

A few red drops did hit the ground, but it was just a trickle!

“Oh, my, my Dear, do you know why – your stabs, they only tickle?”

She snarled and pounced, to trap her prey,

But-I-wasn’t-there! I’d flown away!

Next morning, when the fur had cleared, I fluttered back – I reappeared!

To find poor kitty, drenched in tears:

A sad and lonely cat with fears!

“Why’d you leave?” she purred, choked up;


“Some time alone – was needed, Love;

So you might miss your snow white dove!

(for-) I flew away – to yonder witch – to have her cast a spell!!”

With that, no kitty in the glass; we knew that all was well!

For, in the night, a spell was cast – Now, Kitty has a bill!

For only 20-and-18-cents, she’s now a whip-poor-will!

So, Whip-poor-will and Snow White Dove recited wedding vows!

And birds-of-a-feather-will-flock-together, and some birds can make meows!

fin. ❤


Love is boring and passé, all that old baggage,
the bloody bric-a-brac, the bad, the gothic,
retrograde, obscurantist hum and drum of it
needs to be swept away. So, night after night,
we sit in the dark of the Roxy beside grandmothers
with their shanks tied up in the tourniquets
of rolled stockings and open ourselves, like earth
to rain, to the blue fire of the movie screen
where love surrenders suddenly to gangsters
and their cuties. There in the narrow,
mote-filled finger of light, is a blonde,
so blonde, so blinding, she is a blizzard, a huge
spook, and lights up like the sun the audience
in its galoshes. She bulges like a deuce coupe.
When we see her we say good-bye to Kansas.
She is everything spare, cool, and clean,
like a gas station on a dark night and the cold
dependable light of rage coming in on schedule like a bus.

“Sonnets from the Portuguese” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curving point,—what bitter wrong
Can the earth do us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us, and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Belovèd—where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it