 Poetry: April 29, 2015 Issue [#6963] |
  Poetry
This week: Eliza Cook 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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Buttercups And Daisies
by Eliza Cook
Three summers have gone since the first time we met, love,
And still 'tis in vain that I ask thee to wed ;
I hear no reply but a gentle "Not yet, love,"
With a smile of your lip, and a shake of your head.
Ah ! how oft have I whispered, how oft have I sued thee,
And breathed my soul's question of "When shall it be?"
You know, dear, how long and how truly I've wooed thee,
So don't tell the world that you're waiting for me.
I have fashioned a home, where the fairies might dwell, love,
I've planted the myrtle, the rose, and the vine ;
But the cottage to me is a mere hermit's cell, love,
And the bloom will be dull till the flowers are thine.
I've a ring of bright gold, which I gaze on when lonely,
And sigh with Hope's eloquence, " When will it be?"
There needs but thy " Yes," love--one little word only,
So don't tell the world that you're waiting for me.
On December 24th 1818, in Southwark England the Cook family welcomed their daughter Eliza Cook into their family. Eliza’s father was a local tradesman. The couple had eleven children, in which Eliza was the youngest. Eliza attended the local Sunday school as a young child. At the school she befriended the son of the music master who encouraged Eliza to write her first book of poetry. Eliza’s book contained many poems written as early as fifteen years old. In 1835 at seventeen years of age she published “Lays of a Wild Harp."
In 1838 Eliza began writing poems for the Radical Weekly Dispatch which she quickly became one of their featured writers, appearing often within its pages over the next ten years. During that time she offered many pieces to The Literary Gazette, Metropolitan Magazine and New Monthly. It has been said that her work for the Dispatch was pirated by George Julian Harney for publication in the Northern Star.
Eliza followed the radical movement closely and agreed with many of the older radicals in their views. She also preferred their way of living through friendly societies and self-education. In 1838 She published “Melaia and other Poems.” In 1849 she began writing her own weekly periodical Eliza Cook’s Journal which she wrote for several years. In 1860 Eliza published “Jottings from my Journal,” followed by “New Echoes,” in 1864. Eliza lived her life promoting sexual freedom for women. she believed strongly in self-improvement through knowledge and education. She often referred to it as “leveling up.” Her beliefs and writing made her very popular with the working class.
Eliza Cook died on September 23, 1889 in Wimbledon, England.
Don't Tell the World that You're Waiting for Me
by Eliza Cook
Three summers have gone since the first time we met, love,
And still 'tis in vain that I ask thee to wed ;
I hear no reply but a gentle " Not yet, love,"
With a smile of your lip, and a shake of your head.
Ah ! how oft have I whispered, how oft have I sued thee,
And breathed my soul's question of " When shall it be ?"
You know, dear, how long and how truly I've wooed thee,
So don't tell the world that you're waiting for me.
I have fashioned a home, where the fairies might dwell, love,
I've planted the myrtle, the rose, and the vine ;
But the cottage to me is a mere hermit's cell, love,
And the bloom will be dull till the flowers are thine.
I've a ring of bright gold, which I gaze on when lonely,
And sigh with Hope's eloquence, " When will it be ?"
There needs but thy " Yes," love--one little word only,
So don't tell the world that you're waiting for me.
The Old Arm-chair
by Eliza Cook
I love it, I love it ; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair ?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ? -- a mother sat there ;
And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.
In Childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear ;
And gentle words that mother would give ;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide ;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ;
As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey :
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped--
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled :
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow :
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died :
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek ;
But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
Trapped in the clutches of despair,
my dreams
were shredded
by the claws of fear.
Paralyzed,
I watched
the silken essence of my desire
unravel before my very eyes
and rise
like smoke
above a raging fire.
My dreams
were threads floating free;
pieces of hope
scattered through the darkness.
Frantic
to recover my lost dreams,
I grabbed
for the floating threads.
My hands
were too weak to hold
the remnants
that remained.
Gasping for breath,
I breathed a short prayer
and found the bricks of faith
to hurl at my terror.
Awestruck
I watched
despair's illusion disperse.
Honorable mention:
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Good luck to all 
