We Band of Poets

This day is called the feast of Hildegard:

Those that hath reached this day, with thirty poems

Should rest their keyboard when the day is full,            

And rouse them at the death of April.

They that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil trawl through WordPress,

And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Hildegard:’

Then will they bore their family with their thirty poems.

And say ‘These poems I finished on St Hildegard’s day.’

The old forget such things as thrill them not,

But shall remember with a great relief

What joys they felt that day: then shall our rhymes,

Familiar to ourselves and to our kin:

By Jimmy the poet, Linda and GingerBill,

Jones the rhyme, Scouser5 and TaxiMum,

Be by their suffering kin freshly remember’d.

These poems shall be forced upon the throng;

And Hildegard’s day shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the blogs,

But we in it shall be remember’d;

We few, we knackered few, we band of poets;

For those to-day that post their poems with me

Shall be my sibling; be they ne’er so vile,

This day shall end with celebration:

And lazy folk full worldwide now a-bed

Shall probably not care they were not here,

But we can view them smugly as we say

Our thirty poems are done on this saint’s day.


I expect you all know that this is a massive liberty, taken with the words of Shakespeare from his ‘St, Crispin’s day speech’ from Henry V. I apologise to the Bard and his many fans for this.  It somehow seemed appropriate for our last day of National Poetry Writing Month which, at times, has been a bit of a battle.  Not quite Agincourt though! 😉


Everything inside

In my head is everything I’ve ever owned.  And nothing.

I can touch the fur of loved, long-disintegrated bears,

Hear the rattle of a nut, stuck in a money-box that was really a plastic bottle.

My imaginary hands can stroke the dog I loved and will miss forever.

In my head is everything I’ve ever known.  And nothing.

All the words of all the books through all the hours,

Pictures that made me want to be an artist, or a princess.  Or Odysseus.

I can sing the songs that lulled me into sleep.

In my head is everyone I’ve ever known.  And no-one.

Here, my brother tells me how to tie my laces. 

He seems so grown-up but now I know he’s not.  He’s just a boy.

My friends come over for my birthday, bringing chocolates.

I realise that all along there really was no-one.  Just me.