Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Over 16 years Poetry
The Scholar
Summer delights the scholar
With knowledge and reason.
Who is happy in hedgerow
Or meadow as he is?
Paying no dues to the parish,
He argues in logic
And has no care of cattle
But a satchel and stick.
The showery airs grow softer,
He profits from his ploughland
For the share of the schoolmen
Is a pen in hand.
When midday hides the reaping,
He sleeps by a river
Or comes to the stone plain
Where the saints live.
But in winter by the big fires,
The ignorant hear his fiddle,
And he battles on the chessboard,
As the land lords bid him.
Austin Clarke
*****
Anthem for doomed youth
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmer of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Wilfred Owen
*****
Summer delights the scholar
With knowledge and reason.
Who is happy in hedgerow
Or meadow as he is?
Paying no dues to the parish,
He argues in logic
And has no care of cattle
But a satchel and stick.
The showery airs grow softer,
He profits from his ploughland
For the share of the schoolmen
Is a pen in hand.
When midday hides the reaping,
He sleeps by a river
Or comes to the stone plain
Where the saints live.
But in winter by the big fires,
The ignorant hear his fiddle,
And he battles on the chessboard,
As the land lords bid him.
Austin Clarke
*****
Anthem for doomed youth
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmer of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Wilfred Owen
*****
Over 14 Years Poetry
Robinson Crusoe
(original book by Daniel Defoe, this rhyme taken from "Shrinklets")
Wrecked castaway
On lonely strand
Works hard all day
To tame the land,
Takes time to pray;
Makes clothes by hand.
For eighteen years
His skill he plies,
Then lo! A footprintHe espies -
"Thank God it's Friday!"
Crusoe cries.
Take heart from his
Example, chums:
Work hard, produce;
Complete your sums;
Eventually,
Friday comes.
*****
from Preludes
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o' clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
T.S. Eliot.
*****
(original book by Daniel Defoe, this rhyme taken from "Shrinklets")
Wrecked castaway
On lonely strand
Works hard all day
To tame the land,
Takes time to pray;
Makes clothes by hand.
For eighteen years
His skill he plies,
Then lo! A footprintHe espies -
"Thank God it's Friday!"
Crusoe cries.
Take heart from his
Example, chums:
Work hard, produce;
Complete your sums;
Eventually,
Friday comes.
*****
from Preludes
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o' clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
T.S. Eliot.
*****
Under 14 years Poetry
Stopping by woods on a snowy evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But, I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost.
*****
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But, I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost.
*****
Under 12 years Poetry
The Tyger
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art?
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand?
And what dread feet?
What the hammer?
What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil?
What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake.
*****
Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hid their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
W. H. Davies.
*****
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art?
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand?
And what dread feet?
What the hammer?
What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil?
What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake.
*****
Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hid their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
W. H. Davies.
*****
Under 11 years Poetry
Long gone
Don't waste your time in looking for
The long extinct tyrannosaur,
Because this ancient dinosaur
Just can't be found here anymore.
This also goes for stegosaurus,
Allosauros, brontosaurus
And any other saur or saurus.
They all lived here long before us.
Jack Prelutsky.
*****
The eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred Tennyson.
****
Summer
Rushes in a watery place,
And reeds in a hollow;
A soaring skylark in the sky,
A darting swallow;
And where pale blossom used to hang
Ripe fruit to follow.
Christina Rosetti.
*****
Eldorado
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old -
This knight so bold -
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow:
'Shadow,' said he,
'Where can it be,
This land of Eldorado?''
Over the mountains
Of the Moon
Down the valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,
'The shade replied,
'If you seek for Eldorado.'...
Edgar Allen Poe
*****
Don't waste your time in looking for
The long extinct tyrannosaur,
Because this ancient dinosaur
Just can't be found here anymore.
This also goes for stegosaurus,
Allosauros, brontosaurus
And any other saur or saurus.
They all lived here long before us.
Jack Prelutsky.
*****
The eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred Tennyson.
****
Summer
Rushes in a watery place,
And reeds in a hollow;
A soaring skylark in the sky,
A darting swallow;
And where pale blossom used to hang
Ripe fruit to follow.
Christina Rosetti.
*****
Eldorado
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old -
This knight so bold -
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow:
'Shadow,' said he,
'Where can it be,
This land of Eldorado?''
Over the mountains
Of the Moon
Down the valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,
'The shade replied,
'If you seek for Eldorado.'...
Edgar Allen Poe
*****
Under 10 Poetry
Ants, although admirable, are awfully aggravating
The busy ant works hard all day
And never stops to rest or play.
He carries things ten times his size,
And never grumbles, whines or cries.
And even climbing flower stalks,
He always runs, he never walks.
He loves his work, he never tires,
And never puffs, pants or perspires.
Yet though I praise his boundless vim
I am not really fond of him.
Walter R. Brooks.
*****
A knight and a lady
A knight and a lady
Went riding one day
Far into the forest,
Away, away.
"Fair knight," said the lady,
"I pray have a care.
This forest is evil;
Beware, beware."
A fiery red dragon
They spied on the grass;
The lady wept sorely
Alas! Alas!
The knight slew the dragon,
The lady was gay,
They rode on together,
Away, away.
*****
The busy ant works hard all day
And never stops to rest or play.
He carries things ten times his size,
And never grumbles, whines or cries.
And even climbing flower stalks,
He always runs, he never walks.
He loves his work, he never tires,
And never puffs, pants or perspires.
Yet though I praise his boundless vim
I am not really fond of him.
Walter R. Brooks.
*****
A knight and a lady
A knight and a lady
Went riding one day
Far into the forest,
Away, away.
"Fair knight," said the lady,
"I pray have a care.
This forest is evil;
Beware, beware."
A fiery red dragon
They spied on the grass;
The lady wept sorely
Alas! Alas!
The knight slew the dragon,
The lady was gay,
They rode on together,
Away, away.
*****
Under 9 years Poetry
I had a little nut-tree
I had a little nut-tree,
Nothing would it bear
But a silver nutmeg
And a golder pear.
The King of Spain's daughter
Came to visit me,
All for the sake
Of my little nut-tree.
I skipped over ocean,
I danced over sea:
And all the birds in the air
Couldn't catch me.
****
The hippopotamus
Behold the hippopotamus!
We laugh at how he looks to us,
And yet in moments dank and grim
I wonder how we look to him.
Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!
We really look alright to us,
As you no doubt delight the eye
Of other hippopotami.
Ogden Nash.
****
I had a little nut-tree,
Nothing would it bear
But a silver nutmeg
And a golder pear.
The King of Spain's daughter
Came to visit me,
All for the sake
Of my little nut-tree.
I skipped over ocean,
I danced over sea:
And all the birds in the air
Couldn't catch me.
****
The hippopotamus
Behold the hippopotamus!
We laugh at how he looks to us,
And yet in moments dank and grim
I wonder how we look to him.
Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!
We really look alright to us,
As you no doubt delight the eye
Of other hippopotami.
Ogden Nash.
****
Under 8 years Poetry
Honey Bear
There was a big bear
Who lived in a cave;
His greatest love
Was honey.
He had twopence a week
Which he never could save,
So he never had any money.
I bought him a money box
Red and round,
In which to put
His money.
He saved and saved
Till he got a pound,
Then spent it all
On honey.
Elizabeth Lang.
*****
The swing
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside -
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown -
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
Robert Louis Stevenson.
(My favourite children's poet).
*****
There was a big bear
Who lived in a cave;
His greatest love
Was honey.
He had twopence a week
Which he never could save,
So he never had any money.
I bought him a money box
Red and round,
In which to put
His money.
He saved and saved
Till he got a pound,
Then spent it all
On honey.
Elizabeth Lang.
*****
The swing
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside -
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown -
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
Robert Louis Stevenson.
(My favourite children's poet).
*****
Under 7 years Poetry Page
Whole duty of children
A child should always say what's true,
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table:
At least as far as he is able.
*****
The grand old Duke of York
The grand old Duke of York,
He had ten thousand men;
He marched them up to the top of the hill
And he marched them down again!
And when they were up, they were up,
And when they were down, they were down,
And when they were neither down nor up,
They were neither up nor down.
*****
Go to bed early
Go to bed early wake up with joy;
Go to bed late - cross girl or boy.
Go to to bed early - ready for play;
Go to to bed late - moping all day.
Go to bed early - no pains or ills;
Go to bed late - doctors and pills.
Go to bed early - grow very tall;
Go to bed late - stay very small.
****
The Yak
As a friend to the children, commend me to the yak
You will find it exactly the thing:
It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
Or lead it about with a string.
The Tartar who dwells in the plains of Tibet
(A desolate region of snow)
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know!
Then tell your papa where the yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich,
He will buy you the creature - or else he will not
I cannot be positive which.
Hilaire Belloc.
*****
A child should always say what's true,
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table:
At least as far as he is able.
*****
The grand old Duke of York
The grand old Duke of York,
He had ten thousand men;
He marched them up to the top of the hill
And he marched them down again!
And when they were up, they were up,
And when they were down, they were down,
And when they were neither down nor up,
They were neither up nor down.
*****
Go to bed early
Go to bed early wake up with joy;
Go to bed late - cross girl or boy.
Go to to bed early - ready for play;
Go to to bed late - moping all day.
Go to bed early - no pains or ills;
Go to bed late - doctors and pills.
Go to bed early - grow very tall;
Go to bed late - stay very small.
****
The Yak
As a friend to the children, commend me to the yak
You will find it exactly the thing:
It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
Or lead it about with a string.
The Tartar who dwells in the plains of Tibet
(A desolate region of snow)
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know!
Then tell your papa where the yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich,
He will buy you the creature - or else he will not
I cannot be positive which.
Hilaire Belloc.
*****
Under 6 years Poetry
Cuckoo, Cuckoo,
What do you do?
In April I open my bill.
In May I sing night and day.
In June I change my tune.
In July Away I fly.
In August,
Go I must.
*****
How many miles to Babylon?
How many miles to Babylon?
Three score and ten, sir.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Oh yes, and back again, Sir.
If your heels are nimble and light,
You may get there by candlelight.
*****
Little Clotilda
Little Clotilda,
Well and hearty,
Thought she'd like
To give a party.
But as her friends
Were shy and wary,
Nobody came
But her own canary.
*****
What do you do?
In April I open my bill.
In May I sing night and day.
In June I change my tune.
In July Away I fly.
In August,
Go I must.
*****
How many miles to Babylon?
How many miles to Babylon?
Three score and ten, sir.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Oh yes, and back again, Sir.
If your heels are nimble and light,
You may get there by candlelight.
*****
Little Clotilda
Little Clotilda,
Well and hearty,
Thought she'd like
To give a party.
But as her friends
Were shy and wary,
Nobody came
But her own canary.
*****
Under 5 years poetry
Bell horses, bell horses,
What time of day?
One o' clock, two o' clock,
Three and away....
*****
Hickety, pickety,
My black hen,
She lays eggsFor gentlemen;
Sometimes nine,
And sometimes ten.
Hickety, pickety,My black hen!
What time of day?
One o' clock, two o' clock,
Three and away....
*****
Hickety, pickety,
My black hen,
She lays eggsFor gentlemen;
Sometimes nine,
And sometimes ten.
Hickety, pickety,My black hen!
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