All Poems
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The Mirror for Magistrates: The Induction
© Thomas Sackville
The wrathful winter, 'proaching on apace,With blustering blasts had all ybar'd the treen,And old Saturnus, with his frosty face,With chilling cold had pierc'd the tender green;The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown
Song, Written at Sea
© Charles Sackville
To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite;But first would have you understand How hard it is to write:The Muses now, and Neptune too,We must implore to write to you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la!
For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain,Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main,Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,Roll up and down our ships at sea-- With a fa, la, la, la, la!
Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind;Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen, or by wind:Our tears we'll send a speedier way,The tide shall bring 'em twice a day-- With a fa, la, la, la, la!
The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold
There is Nothing Like a Dame—
© Rowley Rosemarie
There may be nothing like me, but I assure youthe world would have gone to hell but for organised sex-if boys and girls were left to nature's provenance,a person like me would be nowhere at all.
The Sea Change
© Rowley Rosemarie
Lost in the crenellations of the sea waveA shell, a limpet, hugs the graining sandPassive, quiet, with bent and covered head,Enduring all. Beneath the tough rim, blind.
Queen of Hearts
© Rowley Rosemarie
Hers, from childhood the bitter pain of tearsDreamed a peep-shy wedding to a PrinceHer one longing to be cherished through the yearsBy a lover, husband, brother: not since
Buried Life, The
© Matthew Arnold
Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!
A Prayer for Yeats's Son
© Rowley Rosemarie
Once more the mob is howling and half hidUnder the cupola of the dustbin lidMy child screams on: there is no obstacleSave Paul's edict and the seven bare hillsWhereby the television, and unrestBred in the church for centuries, can be stayedAnd for an hour I have walked and prayedBecause there is no room for my kind
No Tea Party
© Rowley Rosemarie
The lid is rising on the kettle's song,Likewise my energy wastes itself in air,Don't call me when the tea's made, I'll be gone.
The Humours of the Seminarian's House
© Rowley Rosemarie
Not in our fall, O Lord, but in Your graceIs living done each day instead of dying;A portion of our day makes up time's raceAnd absolute grandeur is signified by trying.
Flight into Reality
© Rowley Rosemarie
Dedicated to the memory of my best friend Georgina, (1942-74)and to her husband Alex Burns and their childrenNulles laides amours ne belles prison -Lord Herbert of Cherbury
Beauty's Helicon
© Rowley Rosemarie
I've had practice with sleeping with those who do not please me,I've had oceans of despair in my cup of pain,I do not try to please who do not please me,They cause storms, and trigger fissures in the brain,
So when I know my true love by his hand,I'll set in stone my long list of his beauty,Release into the air the demons of that bandWho say the ugly are forgetful of their duty,
To live a life of honour, but not lust,To be the clerk of passion, and its ways,To write the bibliographies in dust,To caption beauty in the prison of their days,
As my true love and I practice the rationOf beauty, that makes fidelity a passion
The House of Life: The Sonnet
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
A Sonnet is a moment's monument, Memorial from the Soul's eternity To one dead deathless hour
Inaugural Poem
© Maya Angelou
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
His Mother's Service to Our Lady
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithalCrowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call,Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell,Albeit in nought I be commendable
A Poem
© Majeed Amjad
On a heap of squalid unscrubbed pans
immersed in simmering scalding water
the toiling sweating hands do seek
the blessed home
for ages they have thought and dreamed.
