Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

My Writing Tutor suggested we use the Easter Break to look at the poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins, I liked this one:

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –          

  When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;          

  Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush          

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring          

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

  The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush          

  The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush          

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.          

What is all this juice and all this joy?          

  A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,          

  Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,          

Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,          

  Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.          

A beautiful Sonnet, written by my friend Stella.

You and I ~ a sonnet

To weave the silken threads of you and I

soft satin love bonds blend persuasions seam

with fragile fondness breathed upon a sigh

as true as sun splashed sparkles bless life’s stream;

and from the spin of love lines on my loom

a prophecy, an ancient kiss is spun

to interlace and then to bring full bloom

amidst the lips of poets every one.

In whispers, woven strands embrace the bond

twixt spinning wheel and those who weave with word;

one voice, one soul, one precious love beyond

the song of sweet nirvana yet unheard.

Sublime the cloth of us lays velvet bound

and cradles cloaks with ling’ring love new found.

© Stella Armour 23-01-15.

Recipes v Slap Happy Cooking A "tongue in cheek" poem.

Recipes v slap happy cooking.      

Recipes, I never follow them.

It was once said by an

ex-son-in-law, “it does-not-do

to watch Marjorie in the kitchen,

she does not work like my mum.

She just throws everything in the pan.

But, what she puts on the plate is

wonderful”. Was my cooking

the reason that they divorced?

I was not at all like his mum?

Recipes, I never follow them.

Because to my mind, a handful

of this and a pinch of that

works for me!!

 A "tongue in cheek" poem!!

Chil'ds Song in Spring by E. Nesbit.

Child’s Song in Spring

by E. Nesbit.

The silver birch is a dainty lady,

She wears a satin gown;

The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady,

She will not live in town.

The English oak is a sturdy fellow,

He gets his green coat late;

The willow is smart in a suit of yellow,

While brown the beech trees wait.

Such a gay green gown God gives the larches –

As green as He is good!

The hazels hold up their arms for arches,

When Spring rides through the wood.

The chestnut’s proud and the lilac’s pretty,

The poplar’s gentle and tall,

But the plane tree’s kind to the poor dull city –

I love him best of all!

The willow is smart in a suit of yellow,

While brown the beech trees wait.

Such a gay green gown God gives the larches –

As green as He is good!

The hazels hold up their arms for arches,

When Spring rides through the wood.

The chestnut’s proud and the lilac’s pretty,

The poplar’s gentle and tall,

But the plane tree’s kind to the poor dull city –

I love him best of all!

Cheerry Blosom Time by mauveone.

Cherry Blossom Time by mauveone.

In the last couple of weeks, I have noticed that

the Cherry Trees were in bud. Yesterday,

I saw one in flower. For me, this is a favourite

time of year when you can see Cherry Tree

flowers coloured from the palest white to

deepest pink.

The Japanese and Chinese countries celebrate

the flowering of their Cherry Trees, it is almost a

religion. They wait eagerly for the

buds to come, when the trees are in full flower,

they organize family groups to have get-togethers

and picnics in the streets. Millions turn out admire

the return of the Blossoms.

A celebration is in the air!!

Spring by William Blake.

Spring

Sound the flute!
Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and night;
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in sky,
Merrily,
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.

Little boy,
Full of joy;
Little girl,
Sweet and small;
Cock does crow,
So do you;
Merry voice,
Infant noise,
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.

Little lamb,
Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Let me pull
Your soft wool;
Let me kiss
Your soft face;
Merrily, merrily, we welcome in the year.

Today is the Spring Equinox – from the Latin “equal night”,

when there is equal light and dark in our day –   

marking the beginning of Spring for countries in the

Northern Hemisphere.

We, the older ones,

Call it Spring,

And we have been through it

Many times.

But there is still nothing

Like the children bringing home

Such happiness

In their small hands.

Mary Oliver.

A Selection of short poems on "Alliteration".

South Elmsall Library Poetry Group, Jan 2017.

A Poor Alliteration. By Jaki Spencer.

The fickle finger of fate,

Flies furtively following furor.

Flourishes, at a feverish rate,

Fervently, favoring more.

Flinging fashionable, faux pax

Funny, fine, flirting feeling.

Faltering, futile, flung from afar;

Forever, fused feather-light appealing.

A Proper P Poem by Kalie Dunning.

Princess Pearl,

Played with a pretty puppy,

Pawed a pink penguin,

Peeked at a poorly panda,

Passed a perfect present,

Paused for a piddle,

Purchased a pepper pizza,

Punched a plump puffin,

Pecked a portly plumber,

Packed a pair of pajamas,

While paddling in a pool

Frozen by Marjorie Lacy.

In my garden, frozen frost is freezing my flowers.

In my kitchen, from the overfull freezer, we keep frozen fish fingers.

On our dining table, fried fish is my favorite food.

On the T.V., racing fleet-footed horses, fly past the post.

Again, on T.V., images of flying fish flashing over the foam!

On our chilly window sill, the frenzied fly fails in his last battle.

‘P’ from Arnold Senior.

Pablo Picasso painted a picture

Painted a pretty picture

A peculiar picture.

Peculiar pictures are what Pablo paints

Peculiar!

From Rachel Kelly's 12 days of Christmas series.

Traditional. Life’s a Journey (Eskimo prayer).

And I think over again

My small adventures

When with a shore wind I drifted out

In my kayak

And thought I was in danger.

My fears,

Those small ones

That I thought so big,

For all the vital things

I had to get and had to reach.

And yet there is only

One great thing.

The only thing,

To live to see in buts and journeys

The great day that dawns

And the light that fills the world.

From Rachel Kellys’  Day 7 of 12 days of Christmas.

2 poems to Perfection: 1, by marge and 2. by Brianne Broughton.

Oh! My Baby.

I look at you, you look at me.

What do you see?

I see you are perfect,

I have to check your tiny toes

I check your tiny fingers,

Your fingers grasp mine.

You open your eyes,

They are blue, intensely blue

Staring at me, deciding I am

Your mummy.

Oh! My baby.

---------------------------

Brianne Broughton Nov 2014

Perfect Imperfection

Stop striving for perfection.

It can never be reached.

Perfections is…

     Illusionary,

           Irrelevant,

                     &

                 inevitably uninteresting.

My dear,

You are perfect

In every single imperfection you have.

Climbing my Grandfather by Andrew Waterhouse.

Climbing My Grandfather

by Andrew Waterhouse

I decide to do it free, without a rope or net.

First, the old brogues, dusty and cracked;

an easy scramble onto his trousers,

pushing into the weave, trying to get a grip.

By the overhanging shirt I change

direction, traverse along his belt

to an earth-stained hand. The nails

are splintered and give good purchase,

the skin of his finger is smooth and thick

like warm ice. On his arm I discover

the glassy ridge of a scar, place my feet

gently in the old stitches and move on.

At his still firm shoulder, I rest for a while

in the shade, not looking down,

for climbing has its dangers, then pull

myself up the loose skin of his neck

to a smiling mouth to drink among teeth.

Refreshed, I cross the screed cheek,

to stare into his brown eyes, watch a pupil

slowly open and close. Then up over

the forehead, the wrinkles well-spaced

and easy, to his thick hair (soft and white

at this altitude), reaching for the summit,

where gasping for breath I can only lie

watching clouds and birds circle,

feeling his heat, knowing

the slow pulse of his good heart.

Climbing My Grandfather by Andrew Waterhouse, reprinted by permission of The Rialto.

12 of 12. "March".                               

A Caribbean airflow

shampoos the brook.

The deepsea deepwarm look of

sky wakes green below

amid the rinds of snow.

Though all seems melt and rush,

earth-loaf, sky-wine,

swept to bright new horizons

with hill-runnel, and gash,

all soaked in sunwash,

far north, the ice

unclenches, booms

the chunks and floes, and river brims

vanish under cold fleece:

the floods are loose!

The sullen torn

old skies through tattery trees

clack, freezing

stiffens loam; the worn

earth's spillways then relearn

how soaring bliss

and sudden-rigoring frost

release

without all lost.

-- Margaret Avison

NOTE: This is the last one in the

series of 12 poems for March.

Three Things Tat Make me Outrageously Happy in March. 11 of 12

11 of 12. "Three Things That Make Me Outrageously             

Happy in March"

Begin with the evergreen Clematis montana. Shy

about opening, blooms pulse into view

a few at a time against the night sky. Some

morning, a creamy tsunami

sweeps over the chain-link fence in a spring

seizure of yearning. Drenches the passerby in

dizzying scent and charges winter's

dark air without warning.

Next, the black umbrella

ribs of Styrax japonica open to rain. Their

delicate green incipient leaves

reverse the gradual losses of autumn. remember

this overture to the Japanese Snowbell

symphony in May when it's time to clean up

the carpet of dried flowers and pods, time to

cart uprooted seedlings away.

When navel oranges

kissed by lazy California sun, glow like

moons in every supermarket, I go

crazy, but all I can carry. At home, they

tumble from the sack to kiss my eager lips, and as

that nectar of the gods floods my veins, I live

in lovers' paradise every juicy moment

of Seattle rains.

-- Madeline DeFrees