I loved my Thesaurus as I was growing up, given to me when I was, I think, nine years old and it stayed by my side for many years. In due course, it fell apart and I was given a shiny new copy. Today is Thesaurus Day which commemorates the birth of Peter Mark Roget, born on this day in 1779 and author of Roget’s Thesaurus. Here’s a poem to celebrate. It’s called ‘Roger’s Thesaurus’ and it is by Brian Bilston who published it on Twitter this morning.
Category Archives: poetry
I love this take on a well known prayer, giving thanks to Mother Nature. It’s from Rebecca Solnit, an American writer who has written on a variety of subjects, including feminism, the environment and politics.
Our mother who art underfoot,
hallowed be thy names,
thy seasons come, thy will be done,
within us as around us,
thank you for our daily bread, our water, our air, and our lives and so much beauty;
lead us not into selfish craving and the destructions that are the hungers of the glutted,
but deliver us from wanton consumption
of thy vast but finite bounty,
for thine is the only sphere of life we know,
and the power and the glory, forever and ever, amen
On their last morning, the LiveWires made Croissants au Chocolat for everyone’s breakfasts.
The fog hasn’t cleared all day and I was reminded of this charming little poem.
Fog by Carl Sandburg
The fog comeson little cat feet.It sits lookingover harbor and cityon silent haunchesand then moves on.
We drew the curtains to find a beautiful rainbow this morning. The house across the street must be full of the crock of gold as the rainbow ends in their chimney. It wasn’t until I put the photo on the computer that I saw the one red leaf left on the Copper Beech next door.
Walking through Penryn this morning in driving rain, I had to stop with the camera under the umbrella to take this photo of a very attractive front door.
A poem about Autumn for you, one that was in a poetry book I had as a child, about nine years old, another that I liked to make up a tune for so that I could sing it to myself. Certainly today we have had ‘great gales incessant’ and the ‘golden leaves’ have been scattered far and wide.
Autumn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven’s o’erhanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer’s prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!
The rains have been incessant over much of the country and my heart goes out to all those who are flooded out of their homes around Doncaster where we used to live, in the villages of Fishlake and Bentley, Sykehouse and Arksey and now we hear in many more areas across the Midlands.
It’s Remembrance Sunday and we went to watch the Parade in which both LiveWires 2 and 3 were taking part. T said it made her feel very important to be in her Cub uniform marching along with everyone.
There are many war poems to choose from. I like the simplicity of this one, Perhaps by Vera Brittain, its honesty and the fact that it applies to the death of anyone dear at any time, not just in wartime. I posted another favourite poem for today here in 2012.
Perhaps, by Vera Brittain
(Dedicated to her fiance Roland Aubrey Leighton, who was killed at the age of 20 by a sniper in 1915, four months after she had accepted his marriage proposal)
Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,
And I shall see that still the skies are blue,
And feel once more I do not live in vain,
Although bereft of You.
Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet
Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,
And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet,
Though You have passed away.
Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,
And crimson roses once again be fair,
And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,
Although You are not there.
Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain
To see the passing of the dying year,
And listen to Christmas songs again,
Although You cannot hear.
But though kind Time may many joys renew,
There is one greatest joy I shall not know
Again, because my heart for loss of You
Was broken, long ago.
My Mum was born on Bonfire Night one hundred and five years ago and, as a child, thought that everyone was celebrating her birthday with enormous fires and fireworks lighting up the sky. Memories of my Mum came to the fore a couple of weeks ago when a poet friend sent along this poem which touched me deeply and I was given permission to use it today in honour of my much missed Mum.