Dylan Thomas - Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night

Laocoön and his Sons, Greek, (Late Hellenistic), perhaps a copy,
between 200 BC and 20 AD, White marble, Vatican Museum

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

- Dylan Thomas, 1951

Dylan Thomas Cwmdonkin Drive 2, by Peter Ross

Anaylsis

Wikipedia

Written for his dying father, it is one of Thomas's most popular and accessible poems. The poem has no title other than its first line, "Do not go gentle into that good night," a line which appears as a refrain throughout. The poem's other equally famous refrain is "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Open Culture

When Dylan Thomas was a little boy his father would read Shakespeare to him at bedtime. The boy loved the sound of the words, even if he was too young to understand the meaning. His father, David John Thomas, taught English at a grammar school in southern Wales but wanted to be a poet. He was bitterly disappointed with his station in life.

Many years later when the father lay on his deathbed, Dylan Thomas wrote a poem that captures the profound sense of empathy he felt for the dying old man. The poem, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night,” was written in 1951, only two years before the poet’s own untimely death at the age of 39. Despite the impossibility of escaping death, the anguished son implores his father to “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

The poem is a beautiful example of the villanelle form, which features two rhymes and two alternating refrains in verse arranged into five tercets, or three-lined stanzas, and a concluding quatrain in which the two refrains are brought together as a couplet at the very end. You can hear Thomas’s famous 1952 recital of the poem above.

Schmoop.com

Dylan Thomas's most famous poem, known by its first line "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night," is also the most famous example of the poetic form known as the villanelle. Yet, the poem's true importance lies not in its fame, but in the raw power of the emotions underlying it. Thomas uses the poem to address his dying father, lamenting his father's loss of health and strength, and encouraging him to cling to life. The urgency of the speaker's tone has kept the poem among the world's most-read works in English for more than half a century.

Dylan Thomas was an introverted, passionate, lyrical writer (lyrical = a kind of poem or work that expresses personal feelings) who felt disconnected from the major literary movement of his day – the high modernism of T.S. Eliot and Wallace Stevens. Thomas was born in Wales in the year that World War I began, 1914, and his reactions to the events of the two World Wars strongly influenced his writing. His first book of poetry made him instantly famous at the age of twenty. Thomas embraced fame in much the same way that another passionate poet, Lord Byron, had done two hundred years earlier – by adopting wild rock-star behavior and intense displays of feeling, especially in his public poetry readings.

Thomas was also known to be a heavy drinker. Sadly, only two years after writing "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" about his father's approaching death, Thomas himself died, probably from alcohol poisoning and abuse, although the exact details of his death are controversial. His premature death at the age of 39 is reminiscent of the early death of another Romantic poet, John Keats. Like Keats, Thomas died before he fully expressed his literary potential; but, also like Keats, he left behind a few enduring works that promise to last through the ages.

Poetic Form

Wikipedia - Villanelle Form

The villanelle consists of five stanzas of three lines (tercets) followed by a single stanza of four lines (a quatrain) for a total of nineteen lines. It is structured by two repeating rhymes and two refrains: the first line of the first stanza serves as the last line of the second and fourth stanzas, and the third line of the first stanza serves as the last line of the third and fifth stanzas. The rhyme-and-refrain pattern of the villanelle can be schematized as A1bA2 abA1 abA2 abA1 abA2 abA1A2 where letters ("a" and "b") indicate the two rhyme sounds, upper case indicates a refrain ("A"), and superscript numerals (1 and 2) indicate Refrain 1 and Refrain 2.

The pattern is below set against "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas:

The villanelle has no established meter, although most 19th-century villanelles have used trimeter or tetrameter and most 20th-century villanelles have used pentameter. Slight alteration of the refrain line is permissible.

Poem Recital by Dylan Thomas

A Brief Biography of Dylan Thomas

Elegy, Poem Recital by Richard Burton

Elegy

by Dylan Thomas

This poem was left unfinished at Dylan Thomas' death.

The first seventeen lines were untouched,

but the rest was reconstructed/edited from

Thomas' manuscript by his friend Vernon Watkins.

Too proud to die; broken and blind he died

The darkest way, and did not turn away,
A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride

On that darkest day, Oh, forever may
He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow

Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost
Or still all the numberless days of his death, though
Above all he longed for his mother's breast

Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,

I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
In the muted house, one minute before
Noon, and night, and light. the rivers of the dead

Veined his poor hand I held, and I saw
Through his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.
(An old tormented man three-quarters blind,

I am not too proud to cry that He and he
Will never never go out of my mind.
All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,

Being innocent, he dreaded that he died
Hating his God, but what he was was plain:
An old kind man brave in his burning pride.

The sticks of the house were his; his books he owned.
Even as a baby he had never cried;
Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.

Out of his eyes I saw the last light glide.
Here among the liught of the lording sky
An old man is with me where I go

Walking in the meadows of his son's eye
On whom a world of ills came down like snow.
He cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres'

Last sound, the world going out without a breath:
Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,
And caught between two nights, blindness and death.

O deepest wound of all that he should die
On that darkest day. oh, he could hide
The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.

Until I die he will not leave my side.)

- Dylan Thomas, 1953

Halloween Collection III - Edgar Allan Poe

Spirits of the Dead

Edgar Allan Poe (from Tamerlane and Other Poems, 1827)

Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

*Wikipedia - Edgar Allan Poe, Spirits of the Dead

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Dream-Land

Edgar Allan Poe (1844)

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule —
From a wild weird clime, that lieth, sublime,
Out of Space — out of Time.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titian woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead, —
Their still waters, still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead, —
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily, —
By the mountains — near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, —
By the gray woods, — by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp, —
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls, —
By each spot the most unholy —
In each nook most melancholy, —
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past —
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by —
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the worms, and Heaven.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule —

For the heart whose woes are legion
’T is a peaceful, soothing region —
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’T is — oh ’t is an Eldorado!
But the traveler, traveling through it,
May not — dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringéd lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

*Wikipedia - Edgar Allan Poe, Dreamland

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe (1845)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“ ’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
            This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            “Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of “Never—nevermore.”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplght gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

*Wikipedia - Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

* * * * * * * * * * * *

To _____ _______.

Ulalume: A Ballad

Edgar Allan Poe (1847)

The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crispèd and sere —
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir —
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul —
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll —
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole —
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere —
Our memories were treacherous and sere —
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year —
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber —
(Though once we had journeyed down here) —
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn —
As the star-dials hinted of morn —
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn —
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said — “She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs —
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies —
To the Lethean peace of the skies —
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes —
Come up through the lair of the Lion
With Love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said — “Sadly this star I mistrust —
Her pallor I strangely mistrust: —
Oh, hasten! — oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly! — let us fly! — for we must.”
In terror she spoke; letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust —
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust —
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied — “This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybillic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night: —
See! — it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright —
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom —
And conquered her scruples and gloom:
And we passed to the end of the vista,
And were stopped by the door of a tomb;
By the door of a legended tomb: —
And I said — “What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied — “Ulalume — Ulalume —
’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crispèd and sere —
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried — “It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here —
That I brought a dread burden down here —
On this night of all nights in the year,
Oh, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber —
This misty mid region of Weir —
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

Said we, then — the two, then — “Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls —
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls —
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds —
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds —
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls —
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?”

*Wikipedia - Edgar Allan Poe, Ulalume

Halloween Collection II - Lord Byron, Robert Burns

Lord Byron and Death

 Darkness

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1816)

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,
And men were gather’d round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black.

The Triumph of Death

The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d
And twin’d themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer’d not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things

The Last Man by Martin

For an unholy usage; they rak’d up,
And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other’s aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

*Wikipedia - Lord Byron, Darkness

* * * * * * * * * *

Halloween, by Robert Burns | J.M. Wright-Edward Scriven

Halloween

Robert Burns (1785)
*with notes by the author

The following poem[1] will, by many readers, be well enough understood; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own. —R. B.

---

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,

The simple pleasure of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

One native charm, than all the gloss of art. —Goldsmith

Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans[2] dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the rout is ta’en,
Beneath the moon’s pale beams;
There, up the Cove,[3] to stray an’ rove,
Amang the rocks and streams
To sport that night;

Amang the bonie winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear;
Where Bruce[4] ance rul’d the martial ranks,
An’ shook his Carrick spear;
Some merry, friendly, countra-folks
Together did convene,
To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,
An’ haud their Halloween
Fu’ blythe that night.

The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when they’re fine;
Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’:
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs
Weel-knotted on their garten;
Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs
Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin
Whiles fast at night.

Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail,
Their stocks[5] maun a’ be sought ance;
They steek their een, and grape an’ wale
For muckle anes, an’ straught anes.
Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,
An’ wandered thro’ the bow-kail,
An’ pou’t for want o’ better shift
A runt was like a sow-tail
Sae bow’t that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,
They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther;
The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin,
Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther:
An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour,
Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,
Wi’ cannie care, they’ve plac’d them
To lie that night.

The lassies staw frae ’mang them a’,
To pou their stalks o’ corn;[6]
But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about,
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippit Nelly hard and fast:
Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
Whan kiutlin in the fause-house[7]
Wi’ him that night.

The auld guid-wife’s weel-hoordit nits[8]
Are round an’ round dividend,
An’ mony lads an’ lasses’ fates
Are there that night decided:
Some kindle couthie side by side,
And burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa wi’ saucy pride,
An’ jump out owre the chimlie
Fu’ high that night.

Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e;
Wha ’twas, she wadna tell;
But this is Jock, an’ this is me,
She says in to hersel’:
He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him,
As they wad never mair part:
Till fuff! he started up the lum,
An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart
To see’t that night.

Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,
Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie;
An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,
To be compar’d to Willie:
Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling,
An’ her ain fit, it brunt it;
While Willie lap, and swore by jing,
’Twas just the way he wanted
To be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min’,
She pits hersel an’ Rob in;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,
Till white in ase they’re sobbin:
Nell’s heart was dancin at the view;
She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t:
Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonie mou’,
Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t,
Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs,
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell:
She lea’es them gashin at their cracks,
An’ slips out-by hersel’;
She thro’ the yard the nearest taks,
An’ for the kiln she goes then,
An’ darklins grapit for the bauks,
And in the blue-clue[9] throws then,
Right fear’t that night.

An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat—
I wat she made nae jaukin;
Till something held within the pat,
Good L—d! but she was quaukin!
But whether ’twas the deil himsel,
Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
She did na wait on talkin
To spier that night.

Wee Jenny to her graunie says,
“Will ye go wi’ me, graunie?
I’ll eat the apple at the glass,[10]
I gat frae uncle Johnie”:
She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,
In wrath she was sae vap’rin,
She notic’t na an aizle brunt
Her braw, new, worset apron
Out thro’ that night.

“Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face!
I daur you try sic sportin,
As seek the foul thief ony place,
For him to spae your fortune:
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten a fright,
An’ liv’d an’ died deleerit,
On sic a night.

“Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,
I mind’t as weel’s yestreen—
I was a gilpey then, I’m sure
I was na past fyfteen:
The simmer had been cauld an’ wat,
An’ stuff was unco green;
An’ eye a rantin kirn we gat,
An’ just on Halloween
It fell that night.

“Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen,
A clever, sturdy fallow;
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean,
That lived in Achmacalla:
He gat hemp-seed,[11] I mind it weel,
An’he made unco light o’t;
But mony a day was by himsel’,
He was sae sairly frighted
That vera night.”

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck,
An’ he swoor by his conscience,
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;
For it was a’ but nonsense:
The auld guidman raught down the pock,
An’ out a handfu’ gied him;
Syne bad him slip frae’ mang the folk,
Sometime when nae ane see’d him,
An’ try’t that night.

He marches thro’ amang the stacks,
Tho’ he was something sturtin;
The graip he for a harrow taks,
An’ haurls at his curpin:
And ev’ry now an’ then, he says,
“Hemp-seed I saw thee,
An’ her that is to be my lass
Come after me, an’ draw thee
As fast this night.”

He wistl’d up Lord Lennox’ March
To keep his courage cherry;
Altho’ his hair began to arch,
He was sae fley’d an’ eerie:
Till presently he hears a squeak,
An’ then a grane an’ gruntle;
He by his shouther gae a keek,
An’ tumbled wi’ a wintle
Out-owre that night.

He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,
In dreadfu’ desperation!
An’ young an’ auld come rinnin out,
An’ hear the sad narration:
He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie—
Till stop! she trotted thro’ them a’;
And wha was it but grumphie
Asteer that night!

Meg fain wad to the barn gaen,
To winn three wechts[12] o’ naething;
But for to meet the deil her lane,
She pat but little faith in:
She gies the herd a pickle nits,
An’ twa red cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam Kipples
That vera night.

She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw,
An’owre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,
Syne baudly in she enters:
A ratton rattl’d up the wa’,
An’ she cry’d Lord preserve her!
An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’,
An’ pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour,
Fu’ fast that night.

They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice;
They hecht him some fine braw ane;
It chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thrice[13]
Was timmer-propt for thrawin:
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak
For some black, grousome carlin;
An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke,
Till skin in blypes cam haurlin
Aff’s nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,
As cantie as a kittlen;
But och! that night, amang the shaws,
She gat a fearfu’ settlin!
She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn,
An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin;
Whare three lairds’ lan’s met at a burn,[14]
To dip her left sark-sleeve in,
Was bent that night.

Whiles owre a linn the burnie plays,
As thro’ the glen it wimpl’t;
Whiles round a rocky scar it strays,
Whiles in a wiel it dimpl’t;
Whiles glitter’d to the nightly rays,
Wi’ bickerin’, dancin’ dazzle;
Whiles cookit undeneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazel
Unseen that night.

Amang the brachens, on the brae,
Between her an’ the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
Gat up an’ ga’e a croon:
Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool;
Near lav’rock-height she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an’ in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi’ a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies[15] three are ranged;
An’ ev’ry time great care is ta’en
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys
Sin’ Mar’s-year did desire,
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
He heav’d them on the fire
In wrath that night.

Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes—
Their sports were cheap an’ cheery:
Till butter’d sowens,[16] wi’ fragrant lunt,
Set a’ their gabs a-steerin;
Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,
They parted aff careerin
Fu’ blythe that night.

*Wikipedia - Robert Burns, Halloween

Halloween Celebrations in Ireland

[1]Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary. —R. B.

[2]Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. —R. B.

[3]A noted cavern near Colean house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed, in country story, for being a favorite haunt of fairies. —R. B.

[4]The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. —R. B.

[5]The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a “stock,” or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells-the husband or wife. If any “yird,” or earth, stick to the root, that is “tocher,” or fortune; and the taste of the “custock,” that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the “runts,” are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the “runts,” the names in question. —R. B.

[6]They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the “top-pickle,” that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid. —R. B.

[7]When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a “fause-house.” —R. B.

[8]Burning the nuts is a favorite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be. —R. B.

[9]Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the “pot” a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue off the old one; and, toward the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand, “Wha hauds?” i.e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse. —R. B.

[10]Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder. —R. B.

[11]Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then: “Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, “Come after me and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case, it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say: “Come after me and harrow thee.” —R. B.

[12]This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a “wecht,” and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times, and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life. —R. B.

[13]Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a “bear-stack,” and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. —R. B.

[14]You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to a south running spring, or rivulet, where “three lairds’ lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and, some time near midnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it. —R. B.

[15]Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand; if by chance in the clean water, the future (husband or) wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. —R. B.

[16]Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper. —R. B.

Halloween Collection I - John Donne, Greville, Robert Herrick, James Child

The Apparition

John Donne (from Songs and Sonnets, 1633)

When by thy scorn, O murd’reuses, I am dead

      And that thou think’st thee free

From all solicitation from me,

Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,

And thee, feign’d vestal, in worse arms shall see;

Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,

And he, whose thou art then, being tir’d before,

Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think

      Thou call’st for more,

And in false sleep will from thee shrink;

And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou

Bath’d in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie

      A verier ghost than I.

What I will say, I will not tell thee now,

Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,

I’had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,

Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent.

*Wikipedia - John Donne, poet

* * * * * * * * * *

Ghostly Apparition in the Forest

Sonnet 100

Lord Brooke Fulke Greville (1633)

In night when colors all to black are cast,

Distinction lost, or gone down with the light;

The eye a watch to inward senses placed,

Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight,

Gives vain alarums to the inward sense,

Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny,

Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense,

Doth forge and raise impossibility:

Such as in thick depriving darknesses,

Proper reflections of the error be,

And images of self-confusednesses,

Which hurt imaginations only see;

And from this nothing seen, tells news of devils,

Which but expressions be of inward evils.

*Wikipedia - Lord Brooke Fulke Greville, poet

* * * * * * * * * *

The Hag, by Penot Sabbat

The Hag

Robert Herrick (1648)

The Hag is astride,

This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
Through thick, and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

A Thorn or a Burr
She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
Through Brakes and through Bryars,
O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

No Beast, for his food,
Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
While mischiefs, by these,
On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

The storme will arise,
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the Tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.

* Wikipedia - Robert Herrick, poet

* * * * * * * * * *

Tam Lin

traditional ballad recorded by James Child (1729)

O I forbid you, maidens a’,

That wear gowd on your hair,

To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.

There’s nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him a wad,
Either their rings, or green mantles,
Or else their maidenhead.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has broded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she’s awa to Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.

When she came to Carterhaugh
Tam Lin was at the well,
And there she fand his steed standing,
But away was himsel.

She had na pu’d a double rose,
A rose but only twa,
Till upon then started young Tam Lin,
Says, Lady, thou’s pu nae mae.

Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet,
And why breaks thou the wand?
Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh
Withoutten my command?

“Carterhaugh, it is my own,
My daddy gave it me,
I’ll come and gang by Carterhaugh,
And ask nae leave at thee.”

Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has broded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she is to her father’s ha,
As fast as she can hie.

Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the ba,
And out then came the fair Janet,
The flower among them a’.

Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the chess,
And out then came the fair Janet,
As green as onie glass.

Out then spake an auld grey knight,

Lay oer the castle wa,
And says, Alas, fair Janet, for thee,
But we’ll be blamed a’.

“Haud your tongue, ye auld fac’d knight,
Some ill death may ye die!
Father my bairn on whom I will,
I’ll father none on thee.”

Out then spak her father dear,
And he spak meek and mild,
“And ever alas, sweet Janet,” he says,
“I think thou gaest wi child.”

“If that I gae wi child, father,
Mysel maun bear the blame,
There’s neer a laird about your ha,
Shall get the bairn’s name.

“If my love were an earthly knight,
As he’s an elfin grey,
I wad na gie my ain true-love
For nae lord that ye hae.

“The steed that my true love rides on
Is lighter than the wind,
Wi siller he is shod before,
Wi burning gowd behind.”

Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has broded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she’s awa to Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.

When she came to Carterhaugh,
Tam Lin was at the well,
And there she fand his steed standing,
But away was himsel.

She had na pu’d a double rose,
A rose but only twa,
Till up then started young Tam Lin,
Says, Lady, thou pu’s nae mae.

“Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet,
Amang the groves sae green,
And a’ to kill the bonny babe
That we gat us between?”

“O tell me, tell me, Tam Lin,” she says,
“For’s sake that died on tree,
If eer ye was in holy chapel,
Or christendom did see?”

“Roxbrugh he was my grandfather,
Took me with him to bide
And ance it fell upon a day
That wae did me betide.

“And ance it fell upon a day
A cauld day and a snell,
When we were frae the hunting come,
That frae my horse I fell,
The Queen o’ Fairies she caught me,
In yon green hill do dwell.

“And pleasant is the fairy land,

But, an eerie tale to tell,
Ay at the end of seven years,
We pay a tiend to hell,
I am sae fair and fu o flesh,
I’m feard it be mysel.

“But the night is Halloween, lady,
The morn is Hallowday,
Then win me, win me, an ye will,
For weel I wat ye may.

“Just at the mirk and midnight hour
The fairy folk will ride,
And they that wad their true-love win,
At Miles Cross they maun bide.”

“But how shall I thee ken, Tam Lin,
Or how my true-love know,
Amang sa mony unco knights,
The like I never saw?”

“O first let pass the black, lady,
And syne let pass the brown,
But quickly run to the milk-white steed,
Pu ye his rider down.

“For I’ll ride on the milk-white steed,
And ay nearest the town,
Because I was an earthly knight
They gie me that renown.

“My right hand will be gloved, lady,
My left hand will be bare,
Cockt up shall my bonnet be,
And kaimed down shall my hair,
And thae’s the takens I gie thee,
Nae doubt I will be there.

“They’ll turn me in your arms, lady,
Into an esk and adder,
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
I am your bairn’s father.

“They’ll turn me to a bear sae grim,
And then a lion bold,
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
And ye shall love your child.

“Again they’ll turn me in your arms
To a red het gand of airn,
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
I’ll do you nae harm.

“And last they’ll turn me in your arms
Into the burning gleed,
Then throw me into well water,
O throw me in with speed

“And then I’ll be your ain true-love,
I’ll turn a naked knight,
Then cover me wi your green mantle,
And hide me out o sight.”

Gloomy, gloomy was the night,
And eerie was the way,
As fair Jenny in her green mantle
To Miles Cross she did gae.

At the mirk and midnight hour
She heard the bridles sing,
She was as glad at that
As any earthly thing.

First she let the black pass by,
And syne she let the brown,
But quickly she ran to the milk-white steed,
And pu’d the rider down.

Sae weel she minded what he did say,
And young Tam Lin did win,
Syne covered him wi her green mantle,
As blythe’s a bird in spring.

Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,

Out of a bush o broom,
“Them that has gotten young Tam Lin
Has gotten a stately-groom.”

Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,
And an angry woman was she,
“Shame betide her ill-far’d face,
And an ill death may she die,
For she’s taen awa the bonniest knight
In a’ my companie.

“But had I kend, Tam Lin,” said she,
“What now this night I see,
I wad hae taen out thy twa grey een,
And put in twa een o tree.”

*Wikipedia - Tam-Lin

How to Write Poems, by Roger Stevens

 

Here is a great article on how to write poetry for children (and for adults too who have an interest in learning to write poetry). Each section is simply written accompanied by an illustrative poem. Its short, concise, and to the point. Enjoy - R.E. Slater

May your words O Lord flow through me to others blest... - re slater

* * * * * * * * * 

This is the complete text of How To Write Poems. It is written for children (aged 8 - 12) and is © Roger Stevens 1997. You may copy it - but to protect the copyright it may only be used for your own personal use or circulated in your school. You are welcome to print it out, put a ring binder on it, and use it as a classroom resource. All poems (unless otherwise stated) are © Roger Stevens 1997

acrostics adjectives and adverbs alliteration cinquain concrete poems cut-ups funny poems haiku imagination limerick mind map nonsense observing onomatopoeia performing re-writingrhyme rhythm scary simile tanka

creating your own book of poems

* * * * * * * * * 

HOW TO WRITE POEMS

(and how to be a brilliant poet!)

by Roger Stevens

http://poetryzone.co.uk/

1: I Can Do That!

I can do that! Yes, you can. If you've never written a poem before or if you write lots of poems and want to improve them, then this is the book for you. It's full of practical advice to help you write better poetry.

Where do ideas come from? Why do some poems rhyme and others don't? How do you decide upon the kind of poem you want to write? When you've written a poem how can you get it published?

If you have to write poems at school, this book will help you there, too. But, most importantly, I hope it will show you that writing poems is fun.

2: What Can I Write About?

Anything can be the basis of a good poem. You can choose big important themes like love, death, famine, poverty and war. Or you can write about what you had for breakfast or your new pair of trainers. Your poem can be happy or sad, silly or serious, scary or peaceful. Maybe it will make people think. It can be about people, animals or things. It can be about real life, aliens or magic. It can be about anything at all.

I went to see Peter Pan at the theatre once. Peter Pan flew across the stage on a wire. I thought what if he was to fly right over the audience and then fall off?

In the Christmas holiday

We went to see Peter Pan

He flew right over our heads

And fell on top of Gran

3: Funny Poems

Humorous poems are usually the most fun to read and they're fun to write. Most joke poems rhyme.

William Shakespeare wrote some of the best plays in the world and some of the best poetry. He had a simple rule. If he wanted to write something serious he used blank verse (I'll tell you all about that later) but if he wanted to make people laugh he used rhyme. He wrote his plays nearly four hundred years ago and the jokes in them may not seem as funny today as they did then. But writers have been using this rule ever since.

A good place to start is with a joke book. What sits in the fruit bowl and shouts for help? A damson in distress. What's long and yellow and lives in a Scottish lake? The Loch Ness Banana. Why did the biscuit cry? Because its mother had been a wafer so long.

The Biscuit's Sad Song

Why are you crying?

The mother biscuit said,

And singing that sad, sad song?

I cry because I

Have a crumb in my eye

And you were a wafer so long

You could take an ordinary everyday situation and add a twist to it. Ask yourself the question - what if ? What if my breakfast cereal started talking to me. What would it say? What if we had a supply teacher who was... magic? A superhero? A robot? A werewolf? What if I took my clothes to the launderette and they shrank? What if I took something unusual to the launderette - such as a magic carpet?

Magic Carpet

My magic carpet needed cleaning

So in the launderette I sat

I should have read the label

Now it's a magic mat

Maybe something funny happened recently at school. You could turn that into a poem. Did your mum or dad, or brother or sister, ever do or say something funny? There are thousands of poems sitting around waiting to be discovered. You just have to keep your eyes and ears open. Most writers always keep a notebook handy to jot ideas down.

Swear Box

I said bloody,

Mum said, Sam

I can't believe I heard

You say that naughty word.

I said, You said it

When you dropped a cup

You said it again

When you had to clear it up

Mum produced a tin

And looking straight at me

She said, If either of us swears

We have to pay 10p

Dad came in from work,

He said, I really need a bath.

It's been a bloody awful day...

I looked at Mum

She looked at me

We both started to laugh

How about writing a limerick? Edward Lear made them popular over a hundred years ago.They have five lines and they rhyme. The first line usually begins There was a young (or an old) man (or woman or boy or girl) of Somewhere. You then think of a rhyme for the place and that gives you the idea for the last line. No one knows who wrote these limericks.

There was a young lady of Tottenham

Who'd no manners or else she'd forgotten 'em

At tea at the vicar's

She tore off her knickers

Because, she explained, she felt 'ot in 'em

There was a young man of Bengal

Who was asked to a fancy dress ball

He murmured: I'll risk it

I'll go as a biscuit

But the dog ate him up in the hall

4: Telling the Truth

Most good writers write about what they know. You could write about an awful war, about the terrible fighting in Bosnia for example. You might feel deeply about it but unless you have actually been there and experienced the snipers and the bombs you will only be writing about what you've heard or seen on the television. You could still write a good poem about it but you wouldn't be writing from your own experience.

If you really want to write a poem about fighting, I bet you've experienced it yourself, maybe at school. Perhaps you've been on the receiving end of a bully's teasing? You could write a very moving poem about that. You could show people, through your poem, what it's like to be bullied. How it feels.

I wanted to write a serious poem about the terrible nuclear accident at Chernobyl. I've never been to Chernobyl and I don't know much about nuclear reactors. However...

School Trip of a Lifetime

There's a town called Chernobyl

It's pretty much deserted now

On account of the accident

It's radio-active for miles around

The school children all have cancers

Caused by the toxic dust

Ivan, from Chernobyl,

came to stay with us

He wasn't very well

But he had a good time

His teacher said

It was the school trip of a lifetime.

5: Scary Poems

Poems can be very frightening. My favourite scary poem is called The Visitor by Ian Serraillier. You could compose a scary poem by first making a list of all the scary things you can think off. Dracula, werewolves, ghosts and witches might be on your list. But a better way would be to think of all the scary things that have happened to you. When were you last scared? If you write from your own experience the poem will sound true, and be better for it.

Make a list of all the things that have scared you. Then ask yourself the question - what if ? Most good writers write from their experience - but then add a little bit extra, a little imagination. I used to be scared of the dark. My grandma and granddad lived next door and you could reach their house by a path that joined our back garden to theirs. When I visited them at night I used to run very fast in case I was attacked by a ghost. Of course there wasn't really ghosts in the garden. But what if there had been? What would they have looked like? What would they have done? 

At the top of our stairs there was a hatch that led to the loft. Some nights I would go to bed and peer up at the hatch, imagining what might be up there. I managed to really scare myself sometimes. There wasn't really anything up there. But what if....?

Bedtime Terror

Every night

I creep up the shadowy stairs

stealthy as a cat

carefully placing my feet

at the edges

in case the steps creak

beneath my weight.

At the top

I hold my breath

fearfully glancing up

at the trapdoor

high overhead,

a white wooden frame,

a thin square of wood,

all that separates me

from...

Listen. Can you hear breathing?

Is that a twisted claw

scraping the wood?

A drip of blood?

A heavy body settling in wait?

Waiting for me?

I hurry by.

Tense. On tip-toe.

My back now exposed

I dive for the safety of my bed.

6: Getting It Right

I don't know of any poets who get it right first time. Usually you have to re-write a poem several times before you're happy with it. Every night I take our dog for a walk. It's usually very late and the streets are deserted and this is a good time for me to think.

One night I thought - I know, walking the dog at night would make a good poem. So I started thinking about what the poem could say. I could write about the night sky and how the stars are very beautiful. Or I could write about how our dog Judy tries to chase cats and nearly pulls me over.

Then I thought about how some nights I didn't want to walk the dog, because I was tired, or it was cold, or it was raining. Then I thought about an argument I once had with my wife about whose turn it was to walk the dog. So the first version came out something like this.

Every night I have to walk the dog

Tonight it's wet and rainy and I really don't want to

But the dog doesn't mind the wet

She just wants to go for a walk

Not much of a poem is it? So I added the argument.

It's your turn to walk the dog.

No it's not, it's your turn.

No it's not, it's your turn

I walked her last night.

But I walked her every night last week...

Then I thought what if I was a child and it was my parents arguing.

Dad said, It's your turn to walk the dog.

Mum said, No it's not, it's your turn.

Dad said, I walked her this morning.

Mum said, She's your dog.

I remembered that phrase from when I had a rabbit. I looked after my pet very well for the first few weeks. Then I got bored with cleaning the hutch out. I thought, I'm fed up with this, Mum can do it. But when I left it, Mum said, You have to do it. She's your rabbit.

So far, so good. But the argument my parents were having in the poem was a bit boring. But what if dad got really cross?

Dad stood up and threw the remote control at the television.

Then he said, I'm going down the pub.

What would mum do then? Would she walk the dog? No, I'd do it. And I'd enjoy it. Just like I do now.

I said, I'll walk her.

The stars were shining

The dog ate someone's left-over kebab on the pavement

The dog chased a cat

I don't know why they were arguing

Walking the dog is fun

Should I make the poem rhyme? It was a serious poem but also, I hoped, a bit funny. But usually if a poem is meant to rhyme - it somehow starts out by rhyming. Poems often have minds of their own. So I decided not to make it rhyme. Now I had to put it all together. I remembered one more thing, the time the dog met a hedgehog. Good, that could go in.

It took me several more attempts before I felt happy with it. (Sometimes, if a poem isn't going well, I put it aside and come back to it. I've just finished a poem that I started over thirty years ago.)

Walking the Dog Seems Like Fun To Me

Dad said, The dog wants a walk.

Mum said to Dad, It's your turn

Dad said, I always walk the dog.

Mum said, Well I walked her this morning

Dad said, She's your dog -

I didn't want a dog in the first place

Mum said, It's your turn.

Dad stood up and threw the remote control

at the pot plant

Dad said, I'm going down the pub

Mum said, Take the dog

Dad shouted, No way!

Mum shouted, You're going nowhere!

I grabbed Judy's lead

and we both bolted out the back door

The stars were shining like diamonds

Judy sniffed at a hedgehog, rolled up in a ball

She ate a discarded kebab on the pavement

She chased a cat up a tree

Walking the dog

seems like fun to me

7: You Gotta Have Rhythm

The very first music that anybody made, thousands of years ago, had a beat or a rhythm. The beat of music has always been very, very important. Why? Because our lives all revolve around a beat. Everything we do has a beat to it. Even when we are asleep we have a beat. What is that beat? It's the beat of our heart.

Poetry has a beat, too. Almost all poetry has it. Poetry may rhyme or it may not rhyme - but it has to have a rhythm. This beat is not always obvious, but it's usually there. That's the difference between a story and a ballad or a conversation and a poem.

You can hear the beat in song words because words to songs have to be written to fit in with the beat of the music. You can hear this very well in rap music, where the words often sound like another drum. Say this poem out loud with a good solid rap-beat behind it (clap or stamp your foot, or both)

The Most Important Rap

I am an astronaut

I circle the stars

I walk on the moon

I travel to Mars

I'm brave and tall

There is nothing I fear

And I am the most important person here

I am a teacher

I taught you it all

I taught you why your

spaceship doesn't fall

If you couldn't read or write

Where would you be?

The most important person here is me

Who are you kidding?

Are you taking the mick?

Who makes you better

when you're feeling sick?

I am a doctor

and I'm always on call

and I am more important than you all

But I'm your mother

Don't forget me

If it wasn't for your mother

where would you be?

I washed your nappies

and changed your vest

I'm the most important

and mummy knows best

I am a child

and the future I see

and there'd be no future

if it wasn't for me

I hold the safety

of the planet in my hand

I'm the most important

and you'd better understand

Now just hold on

I've a message for you all

Together we stand

and divided we fall

So let's make a circle

and all remember this

Who's the most important?

EVERYBODY IS

8: More About Rhythm

Here are two versions of the same poem. The first doesn't have a rhythm but the second does.

First Train Passing

The train makes a clickity-clack noise

on the track

You can see ducks and geese from the window

and they fly up when the train goes by

I can see a big, heavy suitcase

on the rack. It doesn't look very safe.

The train is going into a tunnel

and when it does, everything goes dark

Second Train Passing

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack

Ducklings and geese, fly from the track

Big heavy case, rocks on the rack

Tunnel ahead, everything's black

Clickity-clack, quickity quack

Clickity-clack, rickety-rack

Clickity-clack, blickity-black

Clickity-clackity trickity-track

The second version feels as if it's actually moving along a railway track. Not all rhythm in poems is as obvious as this, of course. But it's usually there if you look for it.

How can you get rhythm into your poems? You could write your poem to a well known tune - like Old MacDonald had a farm. (No one need know that you used a nursery rhyme to compose your masterpiece.) Or you could try saying it to a rap beat.

It's easier to get a rhythm going when you say words out loud. Words are made up of syllables. The word rhythm has two syllables, rhy and thm. The word syllable has three syllables, sy - lla - ble. The word, word, only has one. And when you say words out loud you'll find that some syllables are long and some are short. For example say out loud:

I never like to do the washing up

We can use special symbols for long and short syllables: - is a long one and x is a short one. We sometimes say that the long one is a stressed syllable, because we put more emphasis on it. So,

I ne-ver like to do the wa-shing up

becomes

x - x - x - x - x -

and Clickity-clack, clickity-clack becomes

- x x - - x x -

Notice that the symbols make a pattern.

Now don't worry. You don't have go through this rigmarole every time you write a poem. Once you're aware of the rhythm you can just feel it. But it's useful to know this kind of rhythmic shorthand. And it will be useful when we look at other types of poems you might like to write. In the meantime, why not have a go at writing a train poem?

First think about any train journeys you may have taken. Then think of something that may have happened on the journey. Did the train break down? Did you lose your ticket? Did you have to stand up all the way? Where were you going? Somewhere exciting? Or maybe to the hospital?

Next ask the question what if ? Add a touch of imagination. What if the ticket had blown out the window? What if the ticket had been stolen? What if it had been a magic ticket. And finally tap out a train rhythm on the table and see if you can fit the words to it. You might also add some train-sounding words.

9: The Poet's Tool Kit

What happens when the washing machine breaks down? A plumber comes round to mend it. He usually has a big bag of tools with him. Nearly everybody needs tools to do a job. An artist can't paint without a paintbrush, paper or a canvas to paint on and the paint itself. These are an artist's tools. Even a graffiti artist needs spray paint and a wall.

A poet needs tools, too: A pen or pencil, something to write on, perhaps a word processor, but most important of all - words. The more words you know, the better equipped you are to write poems.

You don't have to have a big vocabulary to write poems. Sometimes the simplest words can produce beautiful poems. But poetry is all about finding the exact word that you need. And so, the more words you know, the better.

How do you improve your word power? The best way is to read. Read lots - and whenever you come across an unfamiliar word, find out what it means. It could be just the word you'll need in your next poem. Get yourself a good dictionary.

Most people (adults as well as children) tend to read the same sort of things all the time. You find a type of story you like, or a favourite author, and that's what you read. But poets try different sorts of stories. Read newspapers and magazines. Try reading classical stories. Once in a while try an "adult" book. And if you are going to be a poet, read lots of poetry. You probably have some favourite poets, but read other poets too. Read. Read. Read. And improve your word power.

10: Observation

A poet is an observer. A poet keeps his or her eyes open and notices things. It's a good idea to keep a notebook handy at all times because you never know when you'll see or hear something that might be useful in a poem.

Not only keep your eyes and ears open, but your nose as well. Have you ever noticed how smelly a classroom gets sometimes? My class had just come back from PE and were changing in the classroom and I thought - this room stinks. Then I started thinking about how some people always have particular smells. And I wondered what my smell was. Then I wrote this poem.

(I started with some true smells and then I added some imagination. I don't have an Aunt Agatha and I've never met anyone who smelled of rope but I did need something to rhyme with Cousin Tracey's soap. Actually, I don't have a Cousin Tracey but I did once meet a girl, years and years ago, who smelt really strongly of soap. It was something I observed at the time and stored away in my memory. There it stayed until it popped up for this poem.)

Smelly People

Uncle Oswald smells of tobacco

Aunt Agatha smells of rope

Cousin Darren smells of aeroplane glue

Cousin Tracey smells of soap

My mum smells of garlic and cabbage

My dad smells of cups of tea

My baby sister smells of sick

and my brother of TCP

Our classroom smells of stinky socks

Our teacher smells of Old Spice

I wonder what I smell of?

I'll just have a sniff...

hmmm... quite nice

11: Acrostics

This is a simple poem based upon a single word. Choose a word - football, netball, Christmas, autumn, school, thunder, animals, giraffe, orchestra, gymnkana, aliens, ghosts, or any other. Write the word down the left hand side and then try to find other words, beginning with those letters, that match.

T eacher's Desk

E lastic bands (confiscated}

A box of tissues 

C up of tea (cold)

H anky (for runny noses)

E ggboxes (useful)

R egister

S ausage roll (half eaten)

D iary (last year's)

E lastoplasts (for cut knees)

S ellotape (used up)

K ind words (unlimited supply)

12: Haiku and Short Poems

The haiku (pronounced hi-coo) is a type of poem that first appeared in Japan. In it, the poet tries to describe a natural object or scene in exactly seventeen syllables. The poem is usually laid out in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables. This sounds easier to write than it really is. The best haikus use simple words, not only to describe a scene but also to give us a feeling or make us think. There is often more to the poem than meets the eye.

Haiku (1)

The old bicycle

leaning against the lamp post

Will it fall over?

Haiku (2)

When I write haiku

I always seem to have one

syllable left over

Another Japanese poem is the tanka. This has thirty-one syllables arranged in five lines (5-7-5-7-7).

Pouncer

Still as a statue

the cat awaits her breakfast

An innocent mouse

carelessly crosses the grass

The cat explodes into life

Another kind of short poem you could try is the cinqain, this time invented in America by the poet Adelaide Crapsey (unfortunate name, good poet though). A cinqain has twenty-two syllables in five lines (2-4-6-8-2).

Panic at Midnight

It's dark

I'm surrounded

by strange shapes and shadows

There's someone coming up the stairs

It's.... Mum!

As you can see, poems can be very short. This is a very short poem based on a very simple idea. I was writing some love poems for Valentine's day. Then I started thinking about love poems that animals might write to one another. Then I thought about dragons...

Dragon Love Poem

When you smile

The room lights up

and I have to call

the fire brigade

13: Sad Poems

Sad things happen to everyone. I've written lots of poems about death. When a person or a pet that you love dies it is a very sad and upsetting time. I like to write a poem when this happens. I think of all the good times we shared. When I read the poem again, weeks, months, or even years later, it always brings back fond memories, a smile and sometimes a tear.

Shelley

I was thinking about my dog,

Shelley.

She died a while ago

but you still remember friends, don't you,

friends who have passed away.

She was unhappy at the end,

confused, she would bump into

the furniture, and stand

staring into the corner of the room.

But I was thinking about the good times.

When she leapt into the icy water

at Betws-y-Coed

and had to be rescued.

She loved swimming in the sea

and shaking herself dry over sunbathers,

especially old wrinkly ones.

She was a great one for fetching

sticks and balls - 

you couldn't take her to tennis matches.

You know, sometimes I think I hear her

in the next room.

I forget she's gone.

Just the wind, I suppose,

rippling through my memories.

14: Word Sounds

Some words sound like the things they represent. If you say the snake hissed out loud, the word hiss makes a hissing sound. You can make it even hissier by stretching it. The snake hisssssssssssssssssssssssed. Lots of words do this. The word pop makes a popping sound. The word whisper has a soft sound and the word crunch has a crunchy sound.

You can have fun with this. Think of something that makes a particular noise, like a bee, the rain, a storm, or a noisy scene like a market, a train station or the school orchestra practice, and have a go at a poem.

Think of something that happened to you once. Add a what if, then describe the scene (version 1) and finally add some sound words. (There's a name for words which sound like their meaning, by the way. It's called onomatopoeia - pronounced on-o-mat-o-pee-ya.)

Version 1

The car drove down a bumpy road

We bounced up and down inside like sacks of potatoes

Then we had a puncture

Version 2

The old car bumped and bumped and bumped

Down the lumpy, bumpy track

In the back we bounced and bounced 

Like potatoes in a sack

Then we had a puncture

The air began to essssssssssscape

Don't worry, boomed Uncle Carbuncle

I have some Sssssssssssellotape

In version 2 I added Uncle Carbuncle, just for fun. And instead of him just saying that he had some Sellotape I used the word boomed, which gives him a big, loud sounding voice. I think I'll change the word began in line 6 to started. Can you see why? The poem isn't finished yet. I'm sure I can think of other ways to improve it. Can you?

One of the reasons that jokes are funny is that the punchline is usually unexpected. This poem has to be said aloud, because it relies on the sounds of the words. The joke is in the unexpected end.

Sneeze

It's c c c c cold out here

It's f f f f freezing

and as you know

the cold and snow

always starts you

sn sn sn sn sn

ATISHOO !

15: Describing Things

Lots of poems describe things. Try this. Write down I am sitting at my desk (or at the table, or in my chair - wherever you really are sitting.)

I am sitting at my desk

Now try and find some words to describe the desk. Imagine you are explaining to someone who hasn't seen your desk before what it looks like. You could use words like brown, grey, white, buff-coloured, grainy, wooden, solid, rickety, shiny, gnarled, ink-stained, tidy, untidy, big, huge, enormous, tiny.... or there are lots of other words to choose from. (We're trying to find adjectives here. A desk is a thing, so the word 'desk' is a noun. Words that describe nouns are called adjectives.)

Once you've found the adjectives which describe your desk you might now have something like:

I am sitting at my huge, wooden, desk.

Now try to find some words to describe how you are sitting. You could use words like still, awkwardly, quietly, dreamily, happily, miserably, nervously... and so on. (Now we're looking for adverbs. Doing, or action, words are verbs, so 'sitting' is a verb. Words that describe verbs are called adverbs.)

So once you've added your adverbs you might now have something like:

I am dreamily sitting at my huge, wooden, untidy desk.

Some poems just tell us about things. The describing words, the adjectives and adverbs, give us a lot more information and make the poem more interesting. 'I am sitting at my desk', on its own, is fairly boring, isn't it? 'I am dreamily sitting at my huge, wooden, untidy desk', gives us a more interesting picture. It also makes the reader curious. What are you dreaming about? Why is the desk huge? If you were sitting nervously at your tiny, purple desk, it would conjure up a very different picture.

Write a simple poem describing something in the room. Try and make it into a vivid picture. And don't forget you don't only have to describe what it looks like. You can also describe what it feels like, or maybe sounds like, or even smells like.

This is a poem I wrote one morning when I was a teacher on playground duty. I've put all the describing words in italics. Have a go at re-writing the poem with your own adjectives and adverbs. It's a serious poem but you could turn it into a funny one if you like. Or you could change the poem to take place in the playground in summer. For the poet, adjectives and adverbs are powerful tools.

The Playground in Winter

I am standing in the playground

on a wintry morning in December.

The sunlight is a burning gold

and the sky a clear, crystal blue.

Crisp leaves of copper and ochre

rustle like a thousand paper flags.

A white seagull and a black starling

weave complicated circles.

A distant aeroplane

glints like a silver star.

Shrieking children chase shadows

that stretch across the cold ground

and cars and lorries

rumble along the road,

distant across the frosty fields.

All is noise and movement.

But low in the sky

last night's moon still hangs,

pale now, and tired,

gazing silently down.

16: Telling Stories

Some poems tell stories. The most common story poem is the ballad. It usually rhymes and has a definite rhythm. Think of a story that you know, or think of something that you've done that would make a good story. You could turn one of Robin Hood's adventures into a ballad, or take a story from Star Wars, or a story you've seen on the television. You could tell the story of a school trip, or what happened when your teacher fell into the school pond.

The story doesn't always have to have a particular rhythm or rhyme, of course. One of my favourite story poems is by Michael Rosen. It's the story of a group of children who should be outside at break but stay in by pretending that have to move chairs from one classroom to another.

In The Big Wave I was thinking about walking along the beach with some friends. Then I thought what if there was a storm? Then I thought what if a huge wave came in.... I've used lots of adjectives and adverbs, too, to make a better picture in the mind of the reader. And I've used a rhythm that goes dah di dah di dah di dah di, dah di dah di dah di, dah di dah di dah di dah di, dah di dah di dah di.

x - x - x - x -

x - x - x -

x - x - x - x -

x - x - x -

The Big Wave

We took a walk along the beach,

Bill Bains, Sam Spoons and me.

The wind was howling overhead

and whipping up the sea.

The surf cracked like a cannon's fire,

the seagulls scattered wide,

when Bill turned round, his eyes were wild,

and, with a desperate shout, he cried,

The Big Wave, The Big Wave,

so old seafarers tell,

When skies are black and thunder roars

The Big Wave comes from Hell.

The good ship Saucy Sally

set sail for Kingston Docks

When The Big Wave like a giant's fist

held her high in seaspray mist

and smashed her to the rocks.

And as Bill spoke The Big Wave broke

with a monstrous wail of pain.

The freakish wave missed Sam and me

but Bill was carried out to sea

and was never seen again.

17: Concrete (or Shape or Visulized) Poems

To write a concrete poem you don't have to go out and buy some sand and cement to mix together. Concrete poems are sometimes called shape poems or calligrams. The Greeks wrote them first over two thousand years ago. A Greek poet might have written a poem about a tree and then made the actual shape of the poem look like a tree. You could do the same. Why not write a poem about a shark in the shape of a shark? You could write a poem in the shape of anything that has a good, strong outline. A bus? A guitar?

Nearly eighty years ago the French poet Appollinaire wrote a poem about rain, so he made the letters trickle

d

o

w

n

the page like raindrops. Concrete poems can change the shape or size of words or they can change the kind of letters used.

As well as being visual, concrete poems can also be about how letters sound. In Louder I've used small words when they should be spoken quietly and big words for when they should be loud. The second poem can't really be read out loud. Like a lot of concrete poems it's purely visual.

Louder !

Okay, Andrew, nice and clearly

off you go

Welcome everybody to our school concert...

Louder, please, Andrew. Mums and dads won't hear you at the back, will they?

Welcome everybody to our school concert...

Louder, Andrew. You're not trying.

Pro - 

ject -

your -

voice.

Take a b i g b r e a t h and

louder !

Welcome everybody to our school concert...

For goodness sake, Andrew. LOUDER ! LOUDER !

Welcome everybody to our school concert...

Now, Andrew, there's no need to be silly.

18: Beginning Sounds

Have you ever noticed when you read a poem that sometimes words that are next to one another start with the same letter? This is called alliteration and it's a useful tool in the poet's tool box. It helps the rhythm flow. You'll notice it a lot in adverts and newspaper headlines. When you're writing a poem and you come to the final draft, see if you can put in some words, maybe adjectives or adverbs, that start with the same letter. Then read the poem out loud and see if it improves it.

The You Can Be A B C

You can be

an artistic actor or a brainy barrister

a clever conductor or a dynamic dancer

an evil enemy or a fantastic friend

a green-fingered gardener or a healing herbalist

an interesting inventor or a jovial jolly juggler

a keen kitchen designer or a loggerheaded lumberjack

a melodious musician or a natty newsreader

an over-the-top opera singer or a princely-paid pop star

a quipping quiz master or a rugged rugby player

a serious scientist or a typewriting traveller

an uppity umpire or a vigorous vet

a wonderful winner or an expert xylophonist

a yelling yachtsperson or a zealous zoologist.

So go to it, you can do it.

Someone's got to, why not you?

And who is going to stop you?

The only person who can stop you -

that's YOU!

Alliteration is used in tongue twisters. Here is a version of a well-known verse, written by a friend of mine, Michael Leigh.

Peter Piper

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers

A pleck of prickled pleppers Peter Piper plicked

If Peter Pipered pipped a plop of puckled pleppers

Where's the plip op pleppy pluppy plip ploppy plip - oh, plow it!

19: You're Imagining It !

I said a few pages back that the best poems come from experience. They have truth. They do, but there are some poems that come purely from the imagination. I call them extra what if poems. If you decide you want to write about aliens - then you keep on asking the question what if - and don't stop until you've entered the world of fantasy.

What if an alien visited .... Earth, my bedroom, school, the supermarket, a duck pond..

What if it thought a duck was intelligent....

What if the alien was tiny, huge, had twenty arms, was made of cheese....

What if my step-dad was an alien?

What if...

When you're writing a fantastic poem, keep asking what if, and never be content with the first thing you think of. You can probably think of something better.

You can write about other worlds (what if there was a planet just like Earth where dogs could talk...) or about magic or about elves and goblins or about anything at all.

What if you won the lottery, what would you buy?

What if you were granted five wishes?

What if you could control the weather?

This poem did start from something that really happened. My step-son came to live with me when he was six. And for some reason he thought I was an alien. That gave me the start. From then on I kept asking myself the question what if and the poem seemed to write itself.

My Step-dad Is An Alien

I'd suspected it for some time.

I finally got up the courage

to talk to him about it.

I think you're an alien, I told him.

Nonsense, he said. Why do you think that?

You're bald. You don't have any hair,

anywhere.

That's not that unusual, he said.

Well, you've got one green eye

and one blue one

That doesn't make me an alien, he replied.

You can make the toaster work

without turning it on

That's just a trick, he smiled

Sometimes I hear you

talking to mum in a weird alien language

I'm learning Greek

and mum lets me practice on her

What about your bright blue tail?

Ah, he said thoughtfully.

You're right, of course.

So, the tail gave it away, did it?

20: A Load of Nonsense

Lewis Caroll wrote He thought he saw an Elephant, that practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was a letter from his wife. Utter nonsense but quite funny. You can do this too.

Write down a few sensible lines first based on everyday happenings: Getting up, having breakfast, walking to school, running a race, playing netball or football. Anything you like. Then start adding some ridiculous things. Change the cornflakes to an elephant or a drain pipe or a Boeing 707 or Dracula. Put Dracula on roller skates. Make the roller skates jet-powered. Keep thinking of weirder and sillier things. Think of things that are the opposites of one another. Instead of flying a kite, why not bury it? Have a cold fire or skate on hot ice. Play around with words.

This is a good chance to flex your rhyming muscles because by finding rhymes you'll think of other ideas. If your breakfast turns into a 'hippopotamus', then what rhymes with that? How about 'a lot of us'? If your toast becomes a 'penguin', then what rhymes with that? 'Violin'? Was the 'penguin' playing a 'violin', or flying a 'zeppelin', or did it sit on a 'hatpin'? Was the penguin with a 'dolphin', or was it wearing a 'sheepskin'? Did it live in the 'Kremlin'? Or 'Berlin'? Was it called 'Catherine'?

Another way to do this is to start with a well known verse or nursery rhyme and then change it. Instead of Humpty Dumpty, have Mr Bean sitting on the wall. Instead of a wall how about a bridge, or a roof, or a wardrobe?

As always, when you've written your first draft read it out loud. Can you change it to give it a good dah di dah di dah rhythm? If it's got two verses can you make the second verse match the first verse? Could you add a few good adjectives or adverbs - crazy ones of course?

When I Am Eighteen

When I am eighteen

I'll paint my nose green

And sing all night in the park

I'll bury my kite

And I'll pick a fight

With an imitation shark

When I'm twenty nine

I'll wear a big sign

Made of straw and eels and grunge

I'll juggle with crumpets

I'll play seven trumpets

and I'll clean my teeth with a sponge

When I'm forty two

I'll fly a kazoo

From the top of a mountain peak

I'll balance a hose

On the end of my nose

And I won't have a wash for a week

When I'm old as the hills

I'll look back on the thrills

That I had in my life and tell tales

Of the terrible jokes

That I played with egg yolks

and a small suitcase full of nails

21: Cut-up Poems

You can create brand new poems using a pair of scissors and a glue stick. Find an old magazine or colour supplement and cut out several lines of text from different articles. Then stick them on to a clean sheet of paper. The beauty of this is that you have no idea what the poem will turn out like until it's finished. You might end up with something weird or funny. It may even turn out to make sense and sound quite serious. It will certainly be an interesting poem.

This is a good way to make up nonsense poems. This poem was made from The Sunday Times Style magazine.

Hollywood stars today

go through life

buying

furniture shops

worm charming

rolling pin throwing

snail racing

iron ball throwing

porridge-making

toe wrestling

sedan chair carrying

Don't wash, then sleep on

Strawberry and fresh smoked trout

for a week

Another way to use the cut-up technique is to start with a well known verse, such as a nursery rhyme, and then cut out words from a comic or magazine to stick on top. It's a good idea to type out the original first on a word processor and print it out. This poem is by Michael Leigh.

Wee Willie Winkie

Runs through the town

Upstairs and downstairs

In his three door hatchback

22: Mind Map

Most people, when they try to think of ideas, make lists. But there's a better way. The creative part of your brain isn't very good at lists because lists have a habit of reaching dead-ends. The creative brain works by making connections. Instead of making a list try making a mind map which imitates the way your creative brain thinks.

Start with a key word - something you'd like to write a poem about - such as an alien, school dinners, your teacher, a pigeon, a giraffe, an explorer, a tea pot, the caretaker, a netball match, midnight, clouds, Spring, travelling or a bicycle.

Then get a big piece of paper and write the word in middle. Draw four lines radiating outwards. At the end of each line write a word that is connected to the first word. From each of those four words draw four more lines and add four more words. Keep doing that until you've filled up the page. By now you should have lots of ideas for a poem.

Mind mapping was invented by Tony Buzan and can be used for all sorts of things. It's a great way to take notes, to remember things, to revise all you know about the Pyramids or to write stories. Try to find one of Tony's books, such as The Mind Map Book, in the library to find out more about it. It's an excellent book for all serious writers and poets.

23: A Poem like a Waterfall

One way to understand what something is like is to compare it with something else. This is called a simile, because it's similar. You could say that a poem was like a waterfall because words splash down the page. If you wanted to explain how your teacher laughed you might compare her to an hyena. Teacher laughs like an hyena. My dad laughs like a drain (think of the sound of water running out of the sink). You could write a poem like a list. Try six ways to be happy, or angry, or lonely. Or think of several ways to describe life, or school or the weather.

Similes are always cropping up in poems because they are so useful. If you wanted to describe the sky in your poem you might use an adjective - blue sky (boring), brilliant blue sky (still quite boring) - or you might use a simile: The sky was as blue as a millionaire's swimming pool (not boring at all, and very descriptive).

You can even use similes as you would use adjectives - The sky was a swimming-pool blue or even The swimming pool-blue sky.

As Sad As...

I'm as sad as an odd sock

with no one to wear it

as sad as a birthday

with no one to share it

as sad as a teddy

with no one to care for it

as sad as a firework

with no one to light it

as sad as a strawberry

with no one to bite it

as sad as a grey day

with no sun to lighten it

as sad as a bonfire

with no one to poke it

as sad as a puppy

with no one to stroke it

as sad as a promise

when somebody broke it.

An unfinished poem called Life

(Perhaps you could finish it for me)

Life is like a cherry

Sweet, with a hard stone inside

Life is a damp patch on the carpet

That mum tries to hide

Life is like a door that is locked - 

When you find the key you can enter the garden

Life is a bar of lemming-scented soap

Life is the name of the game

and I want to play the game with you

Life is like...

24: To Rhyme or Not To Rhyme

When in doubt - don't. Rhymes are fun in nonsense poems but trying to make something rhyme just for the sake of it usually produces the sort of nonsense you didn't want. Poems are about feelings, making pictures with words or making people think. Poems are about choosing just the right word that fits your poem. Poems are not about always having to rhyme.

This is a non-rhyming poem about a school cookery lesson. But it does have a rhyming theme. I started with the list of words that rhymed and wrote the rest of the poem to fit them.

Pancake

Our class made a pancake

with finely-ground flour

and cheese and tomatoes

wrapped in it.

It had a crinkly edge

with lots of little holes

for the steam to escape.

Then Billy knocked the whole lot over

but our teacher rescued it

Then we cooked it under a flame

and put it in the fridge for later.

It was a real work of art.

It was our 

milled, filled, frilled, drilled, spilled, grilled, chilled, skilled pancake

25: Other Kinds of Poetry

There are riddles and puzzles in poems. There are poems that mix up very long lines with very short lines. There are chants and prayers. There are question and answer poems. There are epitaphs or graveyard poems. There are poems in which each line rhymes with the next one, or in which every other line rhymes, or in which the first line rhymes with the last.

There is blank verse, the verse William Shakespeare used in his plays in which each line has a particular rhythm. There are complicated poems like sonnets or very simple poems with just a few, well chosen, words.

Read any good poetry anthology (a collection of poems), and you will see lots of different types of poems. You should try to write poems in every style. This is learning your craft. Later you will be able to choose the style that fits what you want to write about. And as you develop as a poet you will find your own style.

26: Style

A long time ago people thought that poems had to be written in a certain way. They thought that every line had to begin with a capital letter, even if it was in the middle of a sentence. For a while people thought that poems had to rhyme. Then they thought that they didn't and that rhyming was old fashioned.

Today there is no right or wrong way to write a poem. You can use capital letters and punctuation, as you do in normal writing, or you can use no capital letters and/or no punctuation at all. My favourite poet is called e.e. cummings and he hardly ever uses capital letters, not even when we writes his name.

Writing poetry is easy but there are a few rules you should follow. Firstly always write in short lines. Then your reader will recognise that he or she is reading a poem right away.

Secondly, keep to the same style all the way through your poem. Don't start using capital letters and normal punctuation and then change half way through. And if you start using rhymes don't give up half way through. Either use rhymes or don't.

And lastly, and most importantly, remember your poem has to communicate with the reader. It's your job to make the poem as clear as possible. This is why some of the best poems ever written are also the easiest to read. Keep it simple.

27: What next? Your Own Book of Poems

When I've written a poem I like to try it out on someone. Give it to your best friend to read, or your teacher, or one of your parents - anyone you can trust to tell you the truth. You want to know if they enjoyed the poem and if they think you could improve it. And most of all you want to know if they understood it. Always be prepared to re-write a poem.

Some people write private poems just for themselves or for their boyfriend or girlfriend, husband, wife or best friend. But I personally believe that once a poem is written it should be shared with as many people as possible. So as soon as you have a few poems that you are happy with, you should think about publishing them. You could send them to The Poetry Zone. Or you compile your own poetry book. I'm sure your teacher will help if you ask her or him nicely. It's best to print the poems out on a word processor but you can hand write them out neatly.

Here's one way to make a poetry book: Fold several sheets of A4 paper in half. Open them out again so you can see the fold. Using a glue stick, paste one poem on the left of each fold and one on the right. Take two sheets and stick them back to back. Do the same with the third and fourth sheets and the fifth and sixth - and so on until you have pasted in all your poems. Fold the sheets together again and you have a book.

Don't forget a cover and a good title. The title might be a line from one of the poems in the book. You can illustrate your poems using a black fine line pen. If you're not very good at drawing you might ask the class artist to illustrate them for you.

Then ask your teacher to make several copies of the book for you on a photocopier. You could sell the books to raise money for charity or you could give a copy to each class in your school.

If you don't think you have enough good poems of your own for a whole book you could share the idea with your friends so that you each contribute a few poems. You could all base the poems on a theme. How about a book of space poems, or sports poems, or animal poems? You could even produce a class poetry book.

You might then like to try to get a poem published in a professional poetry book or magazine. Go to the library or a book shop and find the names of poets who edit poetry anthologies. Send them a few of your poems - you can write to the publisher whose address is usually at the front of the book. Most editors are very pleased to receive poems from children. Even if they don't decide to publish your poems they will usually write to you and tell you what they think of your work.

When you send your poems to a publisher or editor always write a polite letter and never send too many poems. After all, you are asking them for help and they will be busy people. They won't have time to wade through fifty of your poems. Just send them your three or four best ones.

(In the UK there are also poetry competitions you could enter. W.H.Smith runs a competition for young writers every year. If you write to The Poetry Library and include a large stamped address envelope they will send you details of all the competitions you could enter. The address is The Poetry Library, Royal Festival Hall, Level 5, Belvedere Rd, London, SE1 8XX.)

28: Performing

Poems love to be performed. Perhaps you could perform your poems to the class or to the school. How about a poetry show? I'm writing this chapter on Children In Need Day. You could organise a sponsored poetry show to raise money for this or for some other charity.

When you read your poem to an audience you must speak clearly, not too fast, and project your voice to the back of the room. Here are some other tips for performing poetry.

Vary the pace of your poem. Exciting poems can be read faster with lots of enthusiasm. Reflective poems can be read more slowly. Always rehearse and as you do look in the poem for lines that need to be read with speed or slowed down. Varying the pace of a poem will make it more interesting for the listener.

Pausing in a poem is very effective. Leave a couple of seconds gap just before a funny line or just before something important is about to be said. This will grab the listeners' attention. A pause just before or just after a word or phrase underlines it. Experiment with your poem, pausing in different places and see the effect it has.

Vary the pitch of your voice. A monotonous voice, all on one level, will send the audience to sleep.

Add some movement to the poem. Use your hands and arms to emphasise certain points. If the poem is about things that move, move around. Your poem is like a mini-play and you are an actor. Be an actor as you perform.

Use different voices for different characters in your poem.

Some words in your poem might need emphasis. Try reading the following lines, emphasising the words in heavy type. You will see that the meaning changes every time.

I like a cup of hot chocolate at bed time (But some people don't)

I like a cup of hot chocolate at bed time (It's one of my favourite things)

I like a cup of hot chocolate at bed time (At other times I have a mug)

I like a cup of hot chocolate at bed time (At other times I like it cold)

I like a cup of hot chocolate at bed time (At other times I drink something else)

I like a cup of hot chocolate at bed time (I rarely drink it at other times)

This next poem is very simple, but uses pace, pauses, pitch, movement and emphasis. I perform this poem for infants. The dog's sneeze is like a bark. For the ant I make myself very small and the sneeze is very, very quiet. For the frog I hop across the room. For the elephant I sneeze very, very loudly. Infants love it. But imagine what it would be like if I just stood in one place and read it in a normal, flat, boring voice.

Animal Sneezes

A dog sneezes

atishoo !

An ant sneezes

atishoo !

A frog sneezes

a.. tish... oo!

An elephant sneezes

ATISHOO!

29: Don't Just Sit There...

Get writing! The most important rule about writing poems is to enjoy it. Have fun. Don't be afraid to get things wrong. Good poets write lots of really poor poetry. But they learn from their mistakes. They re-write and redraft. And every now and then they come up with something really good.

There are poems all around you waiting to be discovered. From the moment you open your eyes in the morning until you go to sleep at night you are doing something that you could write a poem about. Keep a notebook handy.

There are thousands of animals, birds, fish and insects waiting to have a poem written specially for them. There are lots of poems about cats and dogs but I bet no one has yet written a poem about a stick insect. You could be the first. Or you could make up an imaginary animal, like Lewis Caroll did in Jaberwocky.

You can write about travelling, your holidays, your family, your brother or sister, your teachers, the first man on the moon, explorers, the homeless - what must it be like to sleep in a cardboard box? - famine, war, illness...

You can write about how you feel - feeling scared, feeling lonely, loving people, hating people, ways to be happy, ways to be miserable...

You can make things up, write about dreams, write about monsters, goblins, aliens...

Let's face it, you can write about anything, you can even write about writing poems.

So, good luck, and maybe I'll read one of your poems in a book one day.

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