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Poems About Places We Live
Profile | Posted by | Options | Post Date |
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BillinOz | Report | 15 Jan 2014 23:20 |
TAYPORT: |
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RolloTheRed | Report | 14 Dec 2013 11:58 |
Some girls used to kiss and run |
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Researching: |
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BillinOz | Report | 14 Dec 2013 10:32 |
Scottish Emigrant's Farewell : |
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LadyScozz | Report | 16 Nov 2013 05:14 |
Livin' in a Land Downunder.... |
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BillinOz | Report | 16 Nov 2013 04:56 |
The Boy in the Train |
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BillinOz | Report | 3 Aug 2013 02:26 |
Thanks Susan. Here's anither. |
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Susan-nz | Report | 2 Aug 2013 07:34 |
Lovely Bill :-). |
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Researching: |
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BillinOz | Report | 14 Mar 2013 03:04 |
My Ain Folk |
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AnninGlos | Report | 6 Aug 2007 15:57 |
Wendy, I didn't know that was inspired by Winchester. You live and learn! Ann glos |
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Lady Cutie | Report | 6 Aug 2007 15:27 |
Daffodils William Wordsworth. I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once i saw a crowd, A host , of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw i at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay , In such a jocund company: I gazed- and gazed- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch i lie In vancant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. |
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maggiewinchester | Report | 6 Aug 2007 14:31 |
This is Jane Austen's last poem, written on July 15, 1817, only days before her death on July 18, 1817. When Winchester races When Winchester races first took their beginning It is said the good people forgot their old Saint Not applying at all for the leave of Saint Swithin And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint. The races however were fixed and determined The company came and the Weather was charming The Lords and the Ladies were satine'd and ermined And nobody saw any future alarming.-- But when the old Saint was informed of these doings He made but one Spring from his Shrine to the Roof Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins And then he addressed them all standing aloof. 'Oh! subjects rebellious! Oh Venta depraved When once we are buried you think we are gone But behold me immortal! By vice you're enslaved You have sinned and must suffer, ten farther he said These races and revels and dissolute measures With which you're debasing a neighboring Plain Let them stand--You shall meet with your curse in your pleasures Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain. Ye cannot but know my command o'er July Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry The curse upon Venta is July in showers--'. Unfortunately, we no longer have the Races :o( maggie |
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Researching: |
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maggiewinchester | Report | 6 Aug 2007 14:27 |
Keats wrote this poem while he was staying in Winchester in September 1819, it was (apparently) inspired by his walks by the river - not the bit you normally see, but along the water meadows, which is still beautiful: SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. maggie |
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RStar | Report | 6 Aug 2007 13:49 |
LOL, Ive just written a poem about my old neighbours from hell in Coventry. Started off as a general poem called ASBO GENERATION, ended up about them! Says a lot about my ex neighbours doesn't it..... |
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Laurie | Report | 27 May 2007 15:06 |
MY COUNTRY by Dorothea Mackellar (1885 - 1968) The love of field and coppice Of green and shaded lanes. Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins, Strong love of grey-blue distance Brown streams and soft dim skies I know but cannot share it, My love is otherwise. I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, O ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her beauty and her terror - The wide brown land for me! A stark white ring-barked forest All tragic to the moon, The sapphire-misted mountains, The hot gold hush of noon. Green tangle of the brushes, Where lithe lianas coil, And orchids deck the tree tops And ferns the warm dark soil. Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky, When sick as heart, around us, We see the cattle die- But then the grey clouds gather, And we can bless again The drumming of an army, The steady, soaking rain. Core of my heart, my country! Land of the Rainbow Gold, For flood and fire and famine, She pays us back threefold- Over the thirsy paddocks, Watch, after many days, The filmy veil of greenness That thickens as we gaze. An opal-hearted country, A wilful, lavish land- All you who have not loved her, You will not understand- Though earth holds many splendours, Wherever I may die, I know to what brown country My homing thoughts will fly. ........................ AHHH yes !! cheers Laurie |
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Sue in Somerset | Report | 27 May 2007 14:38 |
I've never lived there but I found this poem about the village where a number of my ancestors were from. It's by a Norfolk poet but Gedney Drove End is actually in Lincolnshire very near the coast of the Wash. It looks on the map as if it is miles from anywhere. This is a great thread Sue Gedney Drove End Through Swineshead and Sutterton and Gedney I drove us down the old river-bed road That was a part of leaving Norfolk: the theory Of desolation from the road-edge—how the wind Stripped their senses into dullness, or a test Of who made who, land or man, and found Some harsh male pact that drove the sea out, But fades—a spiritual will-o’-the-wisp And the misty kids gone crazy with incest Or sucking poppy seeds: their mothers picking Stones and weeds, cheeks red-veined early; All indistinct now from hearsay or reading— A view of communities on the outside only That overlooked the canning factory and new Houses sustained by love and money: And for me a string of places I went through To get elsewhere, but still surprised By this wasteland and all the crops it grew. Cameron Self |
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DIZZI | Report | 27 May 2007 06:18 |
I LIVE IN A HOUSE WE GOT A MOUSE WE GOT NO CAT SO THAT IS THAT |
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Researching: |
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martocktodevilland | Report | 27 May 2007 06:03 |
i comes from up zummerzet(someset), well i was born in somerset,but now live in tasmania australia. my new wife's family are half scottish and half london although she herself never has left australia,she loves our poems and little ditties and axcents,so please keep them comin. its a great way for all to lurn and and appreciate our homeland. |
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Frances in Norwich | Report | 16 May 2007 20:09 |
Does this count? The man in the moon Came down too soon And asked his way to Norwich He went by the south And burnt his mouth While eating cold pease porridge. Frances |
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PinkDiana | Report | 16 May 2007 20:07 |
My nearest town - and he couldn't have been more right!!!!!!!!! Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens Those air-conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town -- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week for half-a-crown For twenty years, And get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears, And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sports and makes of cars In various bogus Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales. -- John Betjeman |
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cariad | Report | 16 May 2007 19:37 |
thank you carol and gwyneth, though some unflattering lines in R S Thomas poem. I miss wales, and am feeling the 'hiraeth', a longing for my homeland. Joy |