 Poetry: October 24, 2012 Issue [#5322] |
  Poetry
This week: Charles Kingsley Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady
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A Farewell
by Charles Kingsley
I
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey:
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
For every day.
II
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever
One grand, sweet song.
Young And Old
by Charles Kingsley
When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young.
On June 12 1918 Reverend Charles Kingsley and his wife Mary Lucas Kingsley, welcomed Charles Kingsley, their first of two sons, into this world. Kingsley spent his childhood in Holne, Devon, England. He was educated at the Helston Grammar School then went onto studying at King's College London. After that Kingsley went to Magdalene College in Cambridge, where he graduated in 1842. Kingsley followed in his father's footsteps and became a curate of Eversley in Hampshire, England.
In 1848 Kingsley joined Frederick Denison Maurice and Thomas Hughes to form the Christian Socialist movement. This came after the decision of the House of Commons rejected Chartist Petition. The men wanted the Church to help prevent a revolution by facing and dealing with the hardship of the working class. The Christian Socialist published two journals, "Politics of the People" and 'The Christian Socialist." Kingsley added several articles to these journals under a pen name.
Kingsley published his first novel "Alton Locke" in 1850. The book was an attempt to show social injustices to laborers and workers involved with the clothing trade. Kingsley followed "Alton Locke" with "Hypatia" published in 1853. In 1857 he published "Two Years Ago." "The Water Babies" was published in 1863 and was his most famous book, written for his youngest son. He also wrote "Westward Ho! "published in 1855, "The Heroes" published in 1856, "Hereward the Wake" published in 1866 and At Last in 1871.
Kingsley held the post of Professor of Modern History at Cambridge University from 1860 to 1869. He resigned from there and became a priest at Chester Cathedral. While there he founded the Chester Society for Natural Science, Literature and Art, which helped with the establishment of the Grosvenor Museum.
Charles Kingsley died in 1875. He is buried in St Mary's Churchyard in Eversley, Hampshire, England.
Ode to the Northeast Wind
by Charles Kingsley
Welcome, wild Northeaster!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black Northeaster!
O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired are we of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day--
Jovial wind of winter
Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp the lazy dike;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snowflakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave Northeaster!
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.
Who can override you?
Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest tomorrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious Southwind
Breathe in lovers' sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
'Tis the hard gray weather
Breeds hard English men.
What's the soft Southwester?
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their trueloves
Out of all the seas.
But the black Northeaster,
Through the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong, within us
Stir the Vikings' blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow, thou wind of God!
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winners of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] are:
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A sheet of paper, empty still,
That's calling for someone to fill
Blankness with some words of meaning -
It summons me, no time for cleaning!
I drop my chores and grab my pen
And write; a minute, two, or ten.
Heartbeats of passion in my rib cage
Pour my feelings on the blank page;
The words flow out in scarlet swirls
As dark ink creates pretty twirls,
Full of emotion, love and tears,
A silent song that no-one hears.
Red words on white intensify
Emotions, whether I laugh or sigh.
My fingers trace the final line;
I touch my thoughts; they're still mine.
The word-filled paper's velvet feel
On my skin, the pleasure's real,
And satisfaction that it's out -
My heart's on paper, there's no doubt.
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Poetic Writing about Heroes
Once I wrote of the Scarlet Pimpernel,
That great foppish hero of years gone by.
Saving aristocrats, he did so well.
Thinking of his valour just makes me sigh.
Sir Percy was a man of great passion.
I intensified my verse to show this.
He dressed in the very latest fashion,
And his face never wanted for a kiss.
In a velvet jacket dripping with lace,
He touched the heart of many a lady.
And wiped those tears from off her pretty face.
Always courageous and never shady.
In the end, I dropped my pen with a thud;
The Pimpernel was merely a story.
Our real heroes are made of flesh and blood.
War is about sad loss and not glory.
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