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Clouds

Oh silver clouds high in the sky, passing on your way

You do not linger very long, you have no wish to stay

Stretched far into the horizon over land and sea

Some white and light that dance along, some heavy black and mean

But now and then the sun breaks through with piercing shafts of light

And for anyone to notice it’s a truly awesome sight

So bye dear clouds be on your way until you reach your end

For over the horizon…

Latest comment by barrycoleridge 4 months ago

hi travelingman thanks for your posts

Hi everyone.

I thought I’d let you know about a couple of poets we’ll soon have visiting us at Waterstone’s.

The first is playwright, poet and TV actor Victor Richards, who will be reading from his ‘Poetry Trilogy’. It looks at the first immigrants from the West Indies to Britain in the 1940s, and is full of passion and fascinating observations. It’s taking place on Monday 23rd June from 6pm in our Costa coffee shop, tickets are only 1 pound…

hi to travellingman and welcome to the group.

Latest comment by barrycoleridge 4 months ago

oh youll have to repost it travellingman

I know your not a big fan of PhilipLarkin but thought you might be interested to learn that we found his headstone at Cottingham Municipal Cemetery (Plot 81) and, as you can see from the photos, it’s certainly a modest and, like Larkin himself perhaps, somewhat understated affair with the simple epitaph, ‘ Philip Larkin 1922 – 1985. Writer’ No specific mention of poetry!. I can remember the old footage often shown in documentaries about him, of…

Latest comment by barrycoleridge 4 months ago

hi rosy no im glad you posted it-i was concerned about possible repercussions-best wishes-barry

potrait of lord Byron possibly the very first pop star.

My window-pane is starred with frost, The world is bitter cold to-night, The moon is cruel, and the wind Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones, The beggars pacing to and fro, God pity all the poor to-night Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June, Warm and close-curtained fold on fold, But somewhere, like a homeless child, My heart is crying in the cold.

I can remember, when I was about eight, a teacher telling us about poetry and how to write it. He put posters on the wall and we had to write a poem about each one. I remember a poster of an Elizabethan courtyard with people standing around, and it was as if, suddenly, there was an adult voice within. I remember the first line of the poem, but not much else. I was told that it was published in a church magazine, but the church no longer has…

Latest comment by barrycoleridge 5 months ago

hi rosy thats very interesting thanks for your post

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream: Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand How few! yet how they creep…