Posted in poetry

Time for a poem: A Song of Autumn

This is a wonderful poem for reading out loud. ~ Rebecca


 

A SONG OF AUTUMN by Adam Lindsay Gordon

‘Where shall we go for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year,
When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,
When the boughs are yellow and sere?
Where are the old ones that once we had,
And where are the new ones near?
What shall we do for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year?’

‘Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
Can I say where the lost leaves veer
On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow,
When they drift through the dead-wood drear?
Girl! When the garlands of next year glow,
You may gather again, my dear—
But I go where the last year’s lost leaves go
At the falling of the year.’

Posted in poetry

Time for a poem: George

George,

Who played with a Dangerous Toy and suffered a Catastrophe of considerable Dimensions

by Hilaire Belloc

When George’s Grandmamma was told
That George had been as good as gold,
She promised in the afternoon
To buy him an Immense BALLOON.
And so she did; but when it came,
It got into the candle flame,
And being of a dangerous sort
Exploded with a loud report!
The lights went out! The windows broke!
The room was filled with reeking smoke.
And in the darkness shrieks and yells
Were mingled with electric bells,
And falling masonry and groans,
And crunching, as of broken bones,
And dreadful shrieks, when, worst of all,
The house itself began to fall!
It tottered, shuddering to and fro,
Then crashed into the street below —
Which happened to be Savile Row.


When help arrived, among the dead
Were Cousin Mary, Little Fred,
The Footmen (both of them), the Groom,
The man that cleaned the Billiard-Room,
The Chaplain, and the Still-Room Maid.
And I am dreadfully afraid
That Monsieur Champignon, the Chef,
Will now be permanently deaf —
And both his aides are much the same;
While George, who was in part to blame,
Received, you will regret to hear,
A nasty lump behind the ear.

MORAL:
The moral is that little boys
Should not be given dangerous toys.

Posted in poetry

Time for a Poem – The Drovers

THE DROVERS by CJ Dennis

Out across the spinifex, out across the sand,
Out across the saltbush to Never Never land,
That’s the way the drovers go, jogging down the track,
That’s the way the drovers go, but how do they come back?
Back across the saltbush from Never Never land,
Back across the spinifex, back across the sand.
Posted in poetry, Soup Blog Poetry Festival

Time for a poem – The Months

The Months by Sara Coleridge

January brings the snow,
makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,
To stir the dancing daffodil.

daffodilsApril brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daises at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children’s hands with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasant,
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

—————————————————————

Sara Coleridge lived in the northern hemisphere in the nineteenth century — snow in January sounds strange to us!  We’re sharing this poem as part of the Soup Blog Poetry Festival. Until the end of August we’ll be posting poems, interviews with children’s poets, tips for reading and writing poetry, and Poetry Prescriptions (poetry is good for the soul!).