2014 Poetry Theme Challenge

#02 Poetic Honours

This is not so much a challenge to write a poem, but of course you may feel inspired to do so, it is a challenge to share poetry that inspires you in some way whether as a poet or in some other aspect of life.

Quote - Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance - Carl Sandburg


How should the dreamer, on those slow
Solidities, fix his wandering adagio,
Seizing, bone-frail, blown
Through the diaphanous air of their patrols,
Shadows of fanfares, grails of melting snow?
How can he hope to hold that white
Opacity as it endures, advances,
At a dream's length? Its strength
Confounds him with detail, his glance falls
From ridge to ridge down the soft canyon walls,
And, fleece as it may seem, its tones
And touch are the fleece of dream,
But light and body, spaced accumulation
The mind can take its purchase on:
Cloudshapes are destinies, and they
Charging the atmosphere of a common day,
Make it the place of confrontation where
The dreamer wakes to the categorical call
And clear cerulean trumpet of the air.

Alfred Charles Tomlinson

As a side challenge, if anyone can use "Supercalifragillisticexpialidocious" in a poem, I'll give them extra brownie points

Poetic Honours Theme Challenge

Terry Clitheroe

It's Time
Oh Nipple

Divena Collins

Robbert Burns
It Hath Come To Pass
Och Aye It's Burns Night

Jem Farmer

Percy Bysshe Shelley
Erik Gustav Geijer

Peter Willowdown

Old Woman
Once I heard

Terry Clitheroe

It's Time

The time we had, I won't forget
After all this time at last I know
It's finally time to let you go
I'm moving on without regret
Fates black hand changed the bet
And you left, but memories bestow
The time we had.

You sit there watching me no sweat,
You left so soon with our love aglow
Yet with someone else I must grow
You wont judge and there is no threat
The time we had.


Oh Nipple!

What a wondrous creature thou art
Thou who art so small doth make
Me love thee for thy very sake
Belonging of my love, tho so small a part

As a child I would suck so well on thee
Would lick and lap ever at thee so
From thy sleep a treasured acorn grow.
As a man for pleasure I suck so avidly

Thou pert ring that grows with fire
Hidden and covered from other eyes
Open to my view to tease and tantalise
Thy dark areole that swells so with desire

Keys that opens locks to treasure doors
Avidly each night and day I seek
Should I turn thee passions wreak
To find thy lustful pleasure pours.



The Waratah waves at the midday sun,
See a sea of red on sandy soil,
And like the Lily she does not toil
Whilst our day at work is well begun.

As fresh life o'er mountains starts to run,
Nectar seeking birds in early spring,
Cause seeds to spread on wooden wing.
The Waratah waves at the midday sun.

Born of flame when bushfires are done,
Beauteous seas from the Darling mouth,
Reach down to Conjola in the south.
The Waratah waves at the midday sun.

Revelling as being the chosen one,
New South Wales art forms reveal
This wondrous flower on their seal,
A Waratah waving at the midday sun.




The spirit of the times; The trend of thought and feeling in the period.
Australian Concise Oxford Dictionary.

Spring is the beginning of life again
This world is cold, refreshed and new.
To all of winter's ills we bid, "Adieu"
As fresh life smiles and welcomes rain.

With time for thought, casting off old evils,
Seeing all new life beginning to form and shoot.
Inspired as life is green, pushing out new roots
Whilst forgetting all about last years travails.

Scents and odours forgotten in darker times,
In a world that is cold, refreshed and new.
Still building, creating life no time for review
And motivating old poets to write new rhymes.

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Divena Collins

Address To A Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis


Address to a Haggis Translation

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
'The grace!' hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!

Robert Burns


It Hath Come To Pass

It hath come to pass so many moons ago
There shall be a light come from the sky
That beams down to earth upon thee an I
This light shall be a true blessing to show
Within a voice of wisdom words shall flow
That restrain earth angels tears to a sigh
It hath come to pass.

This earth shalt not yet be ready to go
Tho' a voice of wisdom spake from high
For it shall not now be Earths time to die
If this was so all life upon earth may know
It hath come to pass.


Och Aye It's Burns Night

If I may cook a haggis laddie
Will ye tak a wee bite wi` me
Och a wee dram O whiskys free
Or heaps of yon herbs in caddie.

Dinna be feart tae wear yer kilt
Wi a spurron laid oer thee plaid
A highland man may not be staid
For he sways his plaid wi`a lilt.

If lads do not cross legs when sat
Whatever is his lass meant to do
When all is open and there to view
Yet a man is a man for awe that.



I saw my first snowdrop today
Such a welcome sign of spring
Not even birds stay awake to sing
Lest the moment should fade away.

I heard my first cuckoo this morn
A welcome woodland echoed call
He only cuckoo`ed once thats all
Upon the bough of an old hawthorn.

Tho' I saw and heard natures bliss
That awakens my thoughts herein
To be without would be a sin
How may I not greet natures kiss.



Many moons ago when earth was young
Past ancestors cared for their land
With the strength of a caring hand
Their land of plenty shared among.

Beasts of the land roam as free
Upon rights of a natural source
That not a bylaw dare to force
Such was the pledge of the Cree.

Until a tall ship came from the sea
With trinkets that spoke of no worth
They were beckoned to bring forth
All of their inheritance for free.

No more the tribes of warriors roam
All had been taken with nothing left
Of natural instincts sad and bereft
Gone with a tribals ancestral home.

A prophet stood upon a mountain
To pledge his past ancestors call
'Tis but the meek who inherits all
It shall be them once more to gain.

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Jem Farmer

Bigotry's Victim by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind,
The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair?
When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hind
Repose trust in his footsteps of air?
No! Abandoned he sinks in a trance of despair,
The monster transfixes his prey,
On the sand flows his life-blood away;
Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells reply,
Protracting the horrible harmony.

Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches,
Dares fearless to perish defending her brood,
Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing tyrants approaches
Thirsting--ay, thirsting for blood;
And demands, like mankind, his brother for food;
Yet more lenient, more gentle than they;
For hunger, not glory, the prey
Must perish. Revenge does not howl in the dead.
Nor ambition with fame crown the murderer's head.

Though weak as the lama that bounds on the mountains,
And endued not with fast-fleeting footsteps of air,
Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of fountains,
Though a fiercer than tiger is there.
Though, more dreadful than death, it scatters despair,
Though its shadow eclipses the day,
And the darkness of deepest dismay
Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror around,
And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the ground.

They came to the fountain to draw from its stream
Waves too pure, too celestial, for mortals to see;
They bathed for awhile in its silvery beam,
Then perished, and perished like me.
For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot I flee;
The most tenderly loved of my soul
Are slaves to his hated control.
He pursues me, he blasts me! 'Tis in vain that I fly:--
What remains, but to curse him,--to curse him and die?


The Viking by Erik Gustav Geijer

At the age of fifteen became my cramped cabin,
There I lived with my mother.
What to watch on gettren was my long days;
I changed the mind and the senses'.
I dreamed, I thought, I know not what,
I could not be more that used to be happy
Out in the woods.

With heavy heart I leap on the mountain
And looked into the wide sea.
To me it seemed so sweet song billows,
There they go into the foaming sea.
They come from faraway, distant land,
Not keep them shackled, the band not know
Out in the ocean.

One morning from the beach I saw a ship;
As an arrow into the bay shot.
Then swelled my chest, then burned my mind,
Then I knew what I tired.
I ran away from my mother and gettren
And the Vikings took me into the ship
Up on the sea.

At the age of sixteen I played a Viking,
As the poet says, and turned me beardless.
I was sea-king - drew upon the waters
Uti härnadens bloody game.
I made the gangway, donated castles and palaces
And with my struggles on rofvet drew lots
Up on the sea.

From the horns when we emptied the mead musts
With the power of the stormy sea.
From the scale we prevailed on every coast.
The Wallander I took me a maid;
For three days she wept, and so she was happy,
And so was our wedding with playful delight
Up on the sea.

And back among the fighters I was spying
After the ship in the distant blue.
Come Viking sails, - where the debtor blood;
Come krämarn, - so he got to go.
But the bloody victory is the brave host,
Viking and friendship, it links with the sword
Up on the sea.

I was a day of swinging Staf,
The glory for me was the future;
As funny as the swan in swaying SAF,
I was in the roaring wave.
Mine was when every byte, which came in my race,
And free as immensity my hope
Up on the sea.

But I stood on the night of rocking Staf,
And the solitary wave roared,
Then I heard her Norns crochet FAQ
In the storm, shot through space.
Like cows' menstrual fates are billows surge:
It is best to be ready for the prosperity of cases
Up on the sea.

I reached the age of twenty years, - then came short of evil,
And the lake now ask my blood.
He knows it well, the sooner he has been drinking
Der battle was hottest.
The flaming heart, it beats so fast,
It will soon get cool on the chilly place
Out in the ocean.

However, I do not complain about my day speech:
Quick was, but good, their speed
It is not only a road to the hall of the gods;
And the film is better soon.
With the death song the sound waves go;
For them, I have lived; - my grave I will get
Out in the ocean.
So sings the lonely rock hall
The shipwrecked Vikings among bränningars boil.
The depth of the lake him tearing
And the waves sing their songs again,
And the wind varies according to their spawning time,
But the valiant memory - it becomes.

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Peter Willowdown

Old Woman

...meanwhile child...take this as a gift
from a crone to a maiden, and know there is
not so much the difference between the two.
For even a tottering granddam keeps a portion
of girlish heart, and the youngest maiden
a thread of old woman's wisdom.

The High King, Lloyd Alexander

The old woman sits in the street every day,
white haired, her bones and back
skewed and astray,
her once fair skin as wrinkled as leather,
her eyes, once bright and farseeing
now dim with age and sorrow.
The crowds pass by her, someone occasionally
puts a coin in her cup
though often she will not notice
and does not look up.
Does she not have children to support her,
or is it they who send her out onto the street each day
that she might support herself?

Her old, tired eyes seldom leave the ground.
As endless feet and the wheels of cars pass her by
do memories pass through her mind
of when she was a little girl,
a young wife, a mother?
Did she ever think that things would come to this?

Yet, although she is withered, bent and old -
older than the old abandoned car
in the alley around the corner,
older than the old railway station
in the old centre of town
that has not seen a train now for many a long year,
when a young puppy spies her sitting in the dust
and runs to press his face
against her bent and crippled hand -
it is the eyes of a young girl
that looks up to smile at him,
the sad and weary years briefly cast away
and all her burden of memories
as she laughs in the bright sunlight.


Once I heard

Once I heard the Earth playing upon her lyre
and in that melody I discerned
the sad tears of Persephone
and the mournful lament of Euridyce.
But then a butterfly lighted on my shoulder
and on its wings I saw Prometheus's fire,
playful, mischievous and bright
and in the river of light
that cascaded down from the sky
I saw that shadows also had their place,
like fine lines of sorrow upon a woman's face.

Within the long grass of noon
a naked child lay sleeping,
weary from its busy play
throughout the golden morning.
Even as I watched a serpent slithered past it
and disappeared into some ferns.
The thought occured that I might
find a stick with which to beat it
but a great fat bee, all fuzzy with pollen
whispered in my ear, "Leave it -
it too is but a child and seeks
the comfort of the shade.
Only bees and Englishmen
toil in the mid day sun,
perfecting honey from the
sense-things of the world.
Perhaps, when our duties are complete,
we too might rest and dream our sweet dreams;
until then, let all creatures pass
gently by your feet - only the bear
will sometimes seek to harm you
on account of the bees that still
buzz angrily in his head
from when it once tried to steal our honey."

All afternoon I wandered the hills,
listening to the tunes of their
rivers, streams and rills
and the sighing of the breeze in the trees
and the far-off song of the sea
that rolled up the valleys to greet me.
And yet, as clouds drifted by in the sky,
casting their shadows over forests and meadows,
so too I continued to hear the counterpoint
of mournful sorrow co-mingled in Nature's melody,
a living thing of light and shadow
until at dusk the two rose up together,
straining as one to greet the first star
and then a hundred other stars
joined in their aching ecstacy
and each small flower and blade of grass
sang in exquisite harmony
and the insects and cattle and sheep in the field
and all the small songbirds that live in the trees
so that it seemed that all of Earth and Nature sang
and I might have joined in too
save I had remembered you
and my own small voice died
in my heart and on my tongue
and in that instant the Earth laid down her lyre,
its melody momentarilly unstrung,
or so it seemed to me at least,
For a moment it seemed the world
lay hushed and trembling upon the edge
of some deep, unfathomable peace
but then far off I heard some
small thing cry aloud and weep
and the hypnotic spell was broken.

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