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Meaghan Walsh Gerard

Meaghan Walsh Gerard

writer. photographer. woman of letters.

Meaghan Walsh Gerard

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literary

literary cl graves, national poetry month, poem, poetry, railway rhymes

POEM – April 25

April 25, 2014

Railway Rhymes BY CL GRAVES When books are pow’rless to beguile And papers only stir my bile, For solace and relief I flee To Bradshaw or the ABC And find the best of recreations In studying the names of stations.  

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mwgerard
literary anna laetitia barbauld, national poetry month, poem, poetry, washing day

POEM – April 24

April 24, 2014

EXCERPTED FROM Washing Day BY ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase, Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse, In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on, Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire By little…

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mwgerard
literary heinrich heine, lorelei, national poetry month, poem, poetry

POEM – April 23

April 23, 2014

The Lorelei BY HEINRICH HEINE I know not whence it rises, This thought so full of woe; But a tale of times departed Haunts me, and will not go. The air is cool, and it darkens, And calmly flows the Rhine, The mountain-peaks are sparkling In the sunny evening-shine. And yonder sits a maiden, The…

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mwgerard
literary dylan thomas, national poetry month, poem, poetry, the hand that signed the paper

POEM – April 22

April 22, 2014

The Hand That Signed the Paper BY DYLAN THOMAS The hand that signed the paper felled a city; Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath, Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country; These five kings did a king to death. The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder, The finger joints are cramped with…

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mwgerard
literary national poetry month, oxymandias, percy bysshe shelley, poem, poetry

POEM – April 21

April 21, 2014

Ozymandias BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions…

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mwgerard
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