Monday, May 2, 2016

Enjoy some Onomatopoeia

Cataract of Lodore is located in Cumbria
Cataract of Lodore
Lodore Falls shown within Cumbria
(grid reference NY265188)
"The Cataract of Lodore" is a poem written in 1820 by the English poet Robert Southey[1] which describes the Lodore Falls on the Watendlath Beck just above Derwent Water in Cumbria, England. The poem is a masterpiece of onomatopoeia, employing some of the most clever and evocative language ever used to describe a natural feature. When seen in its entire form, the body of the poem does look like a waterfall.
The Powell Expedition named a canyon on the Green River in the U.S. state of Colorado the Gates of Lodore after this poem
  (from Wikipedia)

(A note from Nana)  I know Poetry Month is over, but I found this poem in THE MAGIC GARDEN volume 7 of the Book House collection.  I am very grateful to my mother Joanne who  passed this collection to me a long time ago. She read her children many stories, fairy tales and poems from these books. So grateful to have been under her desire for her children to know literature.  CM

Here is the masterpiece.....


by Robert Southey

"How does the water come down at Lodore?"
  My little boy asked me.

Advancing and prancing and glancing
    and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling
       and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming
         and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing
         and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping
         and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling
        and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping
         and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing
         and clashing,
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the Water comes down at Lodore.


Saturday, April 23, 2016

Poem -Scattered Me

Collage by Neci Monahan.

Scattered Me

The puddles follow 
they lead the way
shiny bowls full of
juicy sky sing me
one of the songs of
Zion plays in my head
the rain left town then
left me a stack
of poems to scatter I
watch my black Dansk clogs
step in Spring  yellow
Palo Verde sluff that
 snuggles the curbs
    in a strange land
the parking lot of
the day job.


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