2015 Poetry Theme Challenge

#11 Celebrating the Poets: William Shakespeare




Thank you to all of you who took part in the last theme challenge. Part, quite a big part, of learning the craft of poetry is reading the work of other poets both contemporary and the masters of the past. With that in mind it seems apt to celebrate the life and work of these influential writers in our own work so now and then I am going to post one as challenge. Who better then to be the first than the Bard himself, William Shakespeare.

Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 2

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journey's end in lovers' meeting-
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,-
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare


Celebrating the Poets: William Shakespeare



Terry Clitheroe

Language of the Soul
Sonnet 18 (Variation)

Divena Collins

After Shakespeare
Shakespeare Renownowed
To Be Or Not

Jez Farmer

Danish Prince
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Leny Roovers

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Terry Clitheroe

Language of the Soul

I love to speak the language of your soul,
It's not written in words but looks and deeds.
Those looks and acts fulfill all our earthly needs
And doing so each look and deed makes us whole.
To be in love you do not need to hear
Love's a language that's based on how you feel.
Word's defy the truth and can deny what is real,
Yet words are needed to remove all that you fear.
The language of the soul exists around the world
It knows not race or creed or what you are
And knows each pair that loves attains a star
That watches caring as their lives become unfurled.
At time's end two sharing souls call their star down
And thankfully, fix it carefully to their gown.


Kisses - Josephine Wall

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Sonnet 18 (Variation)

Shall I compare thee to a glass of wine?
Thou art lovelier and more full bodied
Thy lips more tasty than grapes on a vine
And by such poor fruits be more envied.
The sun doth dimly dip to thy bright eyes
Yet shine brighter still when it be night
The redness of thy lips, to some fruits advise,
Such colour and taste is beyond thy might.
What about thy breasts upon which my head rests
What fruit is equal to their taste or texture?
Nothing comes to mind that would dare suggest
A food or drink or feast that could more allure.
If love were food on thee most lovingly I'd dine
Each night I'd toast thee in thy own sweet wine.



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Divena Collins

After Shakespeare

Prepare thyself for a falsity of poetic form
For this is not a Shakespeare thus I know
Let it not mock the heart that is ever warm
For stanzas to come it shall as evenly flow
Unto a calmness that ever halts the storm
It may be then that I shall reach a plateau
But Shakespeare has no Scottish ancestors
They were never to be his future mentors
Old English shall not depart within speech
Roman was never a tongue to understand
He brought the past forward to the future
Until an old English tongue within his reach
Had taken from old and brought all to hand.
For past decades there was no finer a tutor.



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Shakespeare Renowned

There was not a poet that was unknown
Who lived to prove a prose never ending
Within his works he survived an eternity
Thro' poetic plays within rhyme pending
Shall be named as a genius unto this day
May none forget the mystery of his prose
Within a replica theatre from past to stay
Actors of future from past times besotten
Thro' works of art shall ne-er be forgotten.

His past thro' the future shall ever remain
Inspirational to all that takes him to heart
Words shall never utter a sweeter refrain
Than that of a masters treasures take part
Thro' words of prose that acts within plays
May still show inspiration as time goes by
Yet memories of past may return his ways
A replica theatre remains to be as shown
Rest easy O' Shakesepeare as ever known.



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To Be Or Not

Out of sight and out of mind
One day It shall ever be me
Yet I shall be so easy to hide
For spirits of death run free
To return here upon this earth
As a ghost of medieval times
I stand no chance of a rebirth
When the clock of time chimes
In death I speak not of rhymes.

Nor shall place a quill to paper
I have no muse to be as shown
What you read is not worthy of
Written by a ghost as unknown
Unscathed to the poetic world
Composed without worthy cause
Ever this day rhythms uncurled
There shall be no loud applause
Until feathers of a quill unfurls.


Poets Muse

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Jez Farmer

Danish Prince

A soliloquy questions life or death
One man's desperate plea seeking choice
As he utters "to be or not to be"
The strain echoing in his troubled voice
And again as he draws into his breath
His crying eyes blinded by darkened clouds
As simple words spoken declare much more
To continue with life or to end it now
His knees bruised as they crashed on to the floor
With his mind crushed by depression’s shrouds
In ink he put so much pain in so few
Words; emotion charging out into the air
The bard of bards who carries the mind there
To a Danish Prince as his pain breaks through

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The Poet

The poet she called as her lover
in his hands words caressed her skin
tenderly kissing where her need demanded
as he held her soul beyond the reach of men

Light and linguistic playing his words
each probing deeper inside her body and mind
a haunting seduction in sonnetry
awakening her senses in a moment of lust

The poet she called a lover
as she felt the flames of his heart
burning her flesh with his devil’s tongue
before she fell to her knees at his command

His foreplay of versification
setting her free in desire
as his words remain
her poet lingers longer inside.

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Leny Roovers

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