Tag Archives: poems

Claire and Lou

I know a young Socialist called Claire

Who thinks inequality most unfair.

Her butler Bill

Is with her still

Which shows she really does care …

 

 

I met a young lady called Lou

Who swore she would be true.

But when a girl called Hocking

Lost her fine silk stocking

Lou she swore we’re through

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Early Morning Humour

A young man by the name of Spink
Is very fond of a drink.
But when he broke into mine
And drank my fine wine
The judge sentenced him to clink!

(Clink is another word for prison).

When a man by the name of Spink
Became lost in a good deal of drink
His wife called Clair,
Who is young and fair
Gave me a nod and a wink …

When, on the winding stair
I met a blond called Flair
My wife Anne
Grabbed a frying pan
And ended that affair!

Announcement of the winner of the competition to win a signed copy of “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems” by poet K Morris

Earlier today (Sunday 11 November) I offered my readers a chance to win a signed copy of my collection of poems, “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems”, https://newauthoronline.com/2018/11/11/your-chance-to-win-a-signed-copy-of-the-writers-pen-and-other-poems-by-poet-k-morris/. Many thanks to everyone who shared my poest, it really is appreciated!

Congratulations to Laura, of “All The Shoes I Wear – Writing Down The Bones” (https://alltheshoesiwear.wordpress.com), who correctly identified the poet in question as Thomas Gray. Laura’s copy of “The Writer’s Pen” will soon be winging its way to her!

Gray’s fine poem is reproduced below (its long since out of copyright):

“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

THE EPITAPH
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,
He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God”.

Roses Entwine

Roses entwine.
Are they mine
Or thine?
The bee
Will make free
With the flower
For the lifetime of an hour.
Sting
Then, on his swift wing
Flit to an as yet, uncried
Plaything.

O see how man does sow
The seed
To feed
His need
(Although
He may not fertilise).

She does not protest but her eyes
Say
“I would prefer
That there were
Another way.
Yet
The bee will have his honey
And I my money
And when day
Is over, we may
Both regret”.

Your chance to win a signed copy of “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems” by poet K Morris

I am offering my readers the chance to win a signed copy of my collection of poems, “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems”, (paperback edition), https://www.amazon.com/dp/1730814883/.

The Rules:

1. Only one signed copy of “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems” is available.
2. The first person to provide the answer to the question posed at the end of this post will receive a signed copy of my book.
3. The winner will have their prize mailed to them in December 2018.
4. Anyone (irrespective of their location) may enter.
5. To enter please send an email to newauthoronline (at) gmail dot com, (the address is given thus to defeat spam bots etc)! Please put “competition to win a copy of The Writer’s Pen” in the subject line of your email.
6. The competition closes on 28 November. No entries received after this date will be considered.

The Question

Who wrote the poem which begins thus:

“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
And leaves the world to darkness and to me”.