Miscellaneous Collection by Gretchen
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze…..
Remember this poem from school days?
Complete verse on Poetry Foundation
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45521/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
David Herbert Richards Lawrence (1885 – 1930) was an English novelist, poet, essayist, critic, playwright, and painter.
WILD BIRD RESCUES, GOLD COAST, QUEENSLAND
http://wildbirdrescues.com.au/feeding-native-birds/feeding-swans-and-ducks/
Read why you should NOT feed wild swans!
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
This will be my fourth Reading Wales #dewithon and I am excited at the list of Welsh authors and poets which Book Jotter has assembled to tempt our reading taste buds.
Source one book, source ten!
Create your own list!
See my list!
Join in Reading Wales!
Currently I have six books on a waiting list at my local library because it will be easier to collect them rather than hanging around waiting for an interstate or overseas parcel delivery.
I hold Covid-19 responsible and also a catastrophic flood which swept down the Queensland coast, through my city of Brisbane (everything is still soaked) and pounded coastal New South Wales before heading towards Sydney. Notice how I worked in the word ‘Wales’?
A MESSAGE FROM THE CREATOR
BOOK JOTTER, PAULA BARDELL-HEDLEY
Welcome to the fourth Reading Wales celebration (aka Dewithon 22), a month-long event beginning on Saint David’s Day, during which book lovers from all parts of the world are encouraged to read, discuss and review literature by and about writers from Wales.
For more in-depth information on this reading jolly, head over to DHQ (Dewithon Headquarters), and to see what’s happening this year, please follow this link. You can also share your thoughts and posts on Twitter by using the hashtags #dewithon22 and/or #walesreadathon22.
____________________
N.B. Dewithon22 reading includes fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays, in fact anything with a significant link to Wales.
____________________
What have I ambitiously chosen and which are available to me?
I’m keen to get started 😀 and already made some headway!
My thoughts are that I will eventually read them all—perhaps not all in March—and I am looking forward to having my mind held captive by the literati of Wales. When I put down the books and walk Terra Australis again, my reviews will be either here or Goodreads.
Looking forward to reading about what you are reading!
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
… or have we gone backwards?
The small green book nearest the candle is simply titled “Poems”, a volume of verse by John B Tabb. Each poem is on a single page and has been written in similar length to Twitter and Instagram. All the way from 1894—I had to share it with you!
There are 172 pages, one short poem per page, extolling nature, love, life and death. I guess Tabb wanted only his poetry to shine because there is nothing personal inside.
The first page has an important red logo with lilies and Latin written on it, not for the poet but the company insignia of Copeland and Day, Boston, MDCCCXCIV (1894)
The second page states “Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1894, by Copeland and Day, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.”
The back page reads “This first edition of poems by John B. Tabb is limited to five hundred copies, which have been printed during the autumn of 1894 by John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, Massachusetts.”
A slim volume which appears to have been well handled over many years, and the pale deckle parchment is showing its age—see below.
The big question is “How did this volume arrive at a book fair in Brisbane Australia 127 years later?”
GBW 2021
After the formality of the front pages comes a seven page index (in tiny print) which has intriguing titles listed under headings. I guess the first are general rhymes, the next Quatrains and then Sonnets.
Here are some of my favourites—
The Phonograph
Hark! What his fellow-warblers heard
And uttered in the light,
Their phonograph, the mocking-bird,
Repeats to them at night.
Imagination
Here Fancy far outdoes the deed;
So hath Eternity the need
Of telling more than Time has taught
To fill the boundaries of Thought.
The Dandelion
With locks of gold to-day;
To-morrow, silver gray;
Then blossom bald. Behold,
O man, thy fortune told!
Evolution
Out of the dusk a shadow,
Then, a spark;
Out of the cloud a silence,
Then, a lark;
Out of the heart a rapture,
Then, a pain;
Out of the dead, cold ashes,
Life again.
Compensation
How many an acorn falls to die
For one that makes a tree!
How many a heart must pass me by
For one that cleaves to me!
“We may use different words but emotions are eternal”
Who was this man John B Tabb? Well, his full name and title was Father John Banister Tabb (22 March 1845 – 19 November 1909) and he was an American poet, Roman Catholic priest, and professor of English Contents. He was born into a wealthy family in Amelia County, Virginia, was a blockade runner for the Confederacy during the Civil War, converted to the Roman Catholic Church in 1872, taught Greek and English at Saint Charles College (Ellicott City, Maryland) and was ordained as a priest in 1884. Among his other works, Father Tabb published eight poetry books and was widely published in prestigious magazines of the day including Harper’s Monthly and The Cosmopolitan. The Tabb Monument in Amelia County, Virginia, is dedicated to his memory.
Source https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_B._Tabb
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
——oooOOOooo——
The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
* * * * *
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, American poet (1807-1882)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44651/the-tide-rises-the-tide-falls
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
“Bright Red Car” from The Last Night of the Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski, author poet (Black Sparrow Press 1992) and yes, I know the car illustration is yellow but this car jousting is, well… just read it…
I try to avoid speed duels on the freeway but the most curious thing
is
that all my speeding tickets are when I am quietly driving
along on
my
own.
when I am in a high speed duel, darting in and out of lane
at near 100 m.p.h.
the police are never
about.
when I get tagged for speeding it is for cruising along,
day-dreaming, at a mere 70
m.p.h.
I received 3 such nonsensical tickets in 3 weeks so
I laid low for some time — 2 years, in fact, but today
out there
there was a fellow in a bright red car, I have no idea what
model or kind
and I have no idea of how it all started but I believe that
I started it:
I was in the fast lane going about 70
and I caught the flash of bright red in my rear view and
as he swung out to pass me on the right
he was doing 75
and there was time for him to pass
then cut into the fast lane ahead of me
but something made me hit the throttle and cut him
off
locking him in behind an old lady with a CHRIST
SAVES bumper sticker.
this seemed to piss him no end
and next I knew he had swung over on my bumper,
so close that his windshield and my taillights
seemed one.
this pissed me no end and I was being blocked by a
green Volks directly ahead
but I cut right through an opening and shot
ahead.
bright red went wild, spotted the far lane open,
roared over and gunned it
along.
after that, it was just me and bright red
jockeying for spots.
he would garner a lead, then with a crazy gamble
of lane change I would regain the
lead.
during this duel my destination was forgotten and I’m
sure his was
too.
watching him, I couldn’t help but admire his driving
skill; he took a few more chances than I
but I had a little bit the better machine
so it
just about evened out.
then
suddenly
we were alone: a freak break in the traffic
had set us free together
and we really opened
up.
he had a short lead but my machine slowly gained; I
inched up near him,
then I was at his side and I couldn’t help but
look over.
he was a young Japanese-American, maybe 18, 19
and I looked at him and
laughed.
I saw him check me out.
he saw a 70 year old white man
with a face like
Frankenstein.
the young man took his foot off the throttle and
dropped back
I let him go.
I turned the radio
on.
I was 18 miles past my destination but it
didn’t matter.
it was a beautiful sunny day.
* * * * *
Charles Bukowski (August 1920 – March 1994) a German American author, an influential, prolific and transgressive 20th century poet, short story writer, and novelist.
Reference https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/charles-bukowski
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
“Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade
Of the leaf where you slumbered all day;
Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty moth,
And make use of your wings while you may. . .
But tho’ dreams of delight may have dazzled you quite,
They at last found it dangerous play;
Many things in this world that look bright, pretty moth,
Only dazzle to lead us astray”.
By Thomas Haynes Bayly
“Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems” by Thomas Haynes Bayly (October 1797 – April 1839) an English poet, songwriter, playwright, and novelist https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Thomas_Haynes_Bayly
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
“The Road Not Taken” is a narrative poem by Robert Frost, published in 1916 as the first poem in the collection Mountain Interval.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves, no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
By American poet Robert Lee Frost (March 1874 – January 1963)
Condamine River sheep shearers on the Track 1800s Queensland Australia
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver (1935-2019) author and Pulitzer Prize winning poet.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/mary-oliver
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
1st place
Legitimate
The first time I’ve won a
Trophy
In my entire life
And you weren’t there.
I was so excited
My body
SHOOK!
I never expected to win anything
At all
And
When I told you, I got
“Good job”
You encourage me to do this
Begged
Pleaded
Anything you could do
To make me join you in it
And then
I got
Everything
But not
Your joy
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
by Pablo Neruda
… Oh independent wild beast
of the house
arrogant
vestige of the night,
lazy, gymnastic
and alien,
very deep cat,
secret policeman
of bedrooms,
insignia
of a
disappeared velvet,
surely there is no
enigma
in your manner,
perhaps you are not a mystery,
everyone knows of you
and you belong
to the least mysterious inhabitant,
perhaps everyone believes it,
everyone believes himself the owner,
proprietor,
uncle
of a cat,
companion,
colleague,
disciple
or friend
of his cat …
https://www.librarything.com/topic/26410
Listed Number 8 but originally from ‘Odes to Common Things’ by poet Pablo Neruda
There are several different translations from Chilean Spanish to English:
https://leonarddurso.com/2013/07/22/from-ode-to-a-cat-by-pablo-neruda/
http://unmasking.tripod.com/poemless/pn20.htm
https://amiracarluccio.com/2017/10/19/long-poems-ode-to-a-cat-by-pablo-neruda-oda-al-gato/
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-the-cat/
PROFILEPablo Neruda (1904–1973) born Parral, Chile.
Attended Chile University and became a poet, politician, activist, diplomat.
National Prize for Literature Chile (1945)
International Peace Prize (1950)
Lenin Peace Prize (1953)
American Academy of Arts and Letters (Foreign Honorary ∙ Literature ∙ 1968)
Nobel Prize in Literature (1971)
Golden Wreath (1972)
He was perhaps the most important Latin American poet of the 20th century and for a deeper look at his intriguing life I recommend https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Pablo_Neruda
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
Exactly what we need in these days of social-distancing!
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
I’m looking for story and poetry submissions for the May issue. A nice way to honour a special person at a time when we might not be able to visit…
Mothers, grandmothers, daughters who have children of their own, special aunts and friends…send them in 🙂
Positive Words magazine
PO Box 798
Heathcote 3523 Victoria
Oh, hark the dogs are barking, love,
I can no longer stay,
The men are all gone mustering
And it is nearly day.
And I must be off by the morning light,
Before the sun doth shine,
To meet the Roma shearers,
On the banks of the Condamine.
Oh Willie, dearest Willie,
I’ll go along with you,
I’ll cut off all my auburn fringe
And be a shearer, too.
I’ll cook, and count your tally, love,
While ringer-o you shine,
And I’ll wash your greasy moleskins
On the banks of the Condamine.
Oh, Nancy, dearest Nancy,
With me you cannot go,
The squatters gave us orders, love,
No woman should do so;
Your delicate constitution
Is not equal unto mine,
To withstand the constant tigering
On the banks of the Condamine.
Oh Willy, dearest Willy,
Then stay back home with me,
We’ll take up a selection,
And a farmer’s wife I’ll be.
I’ll help you husk the corn, love,
And cook your meals so fine.
You’ll forget the ram-stag mutton
On the banks of the Condamine.
Oh, Nancy, dearest Nancy,
Please do not hold me back,
Down there the boys are waiting,
And I must be on the track.
So here’s a goodbye kiss, love,
Back home here I’ll incline
When we’ve shorn the last of the jumbucks
On the banks of the Condamine.
Anonymous.
From ‘Bush Songs, Ballads and Other Verse’ selected by Douglas Stewart and Nancy Keesing and published 1967 by Angus & Robertson Ltd, printed by Discovery Press.
The following information from—
https://music.stevetowson.com/track/the-banks-of-the-condamine-2
Australian traditional music has a dearth of love songs, but here is one from our home state of Queensland. The English folk singer and collector A.L. Lloyd wrote about this song—
“Throughout the fifty years from 1820 to 1870, broadside printers in London, Newcastle, Dublin and elsewhere did a good trade with the stall-ballad called ‘Banks of the Nile’, a song from the Napoleonic Wars. The song spread to America and Australia, and in Queensland it became parodied as ‘The Banks of the Condamine’, with the hero no longer a soldier but a horse-breaker or a shearer. It has turned up in sundry shapes, to various tunes, many times over, mostly in Queensland.”
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
Kate Llewellyn is a hidden treasure. I had not read any of her works before today but she is reaching the age of legend status and should be acknowledged for her beautiful poetry now rather than in retrospect.
In ‘Blue Mountains Christmas’ Kate Llewellyn explores the particular delight of summer rain which breaks a dry spell:
Yesterday, smoke from the valley-–
I thought it was mist
until I smelt it-–
and today, each leaf holds water drops,
shining – it rained in the night.
Kate Llewellyn expresses wonder in the capacity of nature for regeneration in the face of disaster, and nature’s opportunism. In ‘Magpies’ she defines the summer heat and leaving a garden sprinkler on while a bushfire rages:
It had been hot for days,
the garden sprawled-–
hit like a cricketer.
I left a hose on,
hanging in the apple tree,
and went indoors and slept.
Magpies found this fountain
and stalked around.
They made a midsummer opera
and gargled water-–
it became their song.
They sang as if to praise
the fountain in the tree.
While all this was happening
a hundred fires swept the State.
Great trees exploded,
birds and animals caught fire.
People died and houses burnt,
yet still these magpies sang
around the fountain in the tree.
Australia is the driest inhabited continent on the planet. It is natural that drought and the regeneration which comes from bushfires and drought-breaking rains are timeless subjects in our poetry and evocatively captured by Kate Llewellyn.
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
Kate Llewellyn is an award-winning Australian poet, author, diarist and travel writer. She is the author of twenty-four books comprising eight of poetry, five of travel, journals, memoir ‘The Dressmaker’s Daughter’, letters and essays. “Kate Llewellyn is naturally poetic, naturally personal, and uniquely generous with it.” writes Australian Book Review’s South Australian State Editor Peter Goldsworthy. Further reading Poetry Library.
ABC Radio National transcript:
https://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/saturdayextra/kate-llewellyn/3288742
Here’s what coordinator, author and literary entrepreneur, Michelle Worthington has to say in her newsletter: ‘This year’s theme ‘Bedtime Yarns and Ballads from the Australian Bush’ will have judges looking for creative, engaging short stories or poems inspired by life in Australia, Australian animals, the Outback or overcoming adversity which will appeal to children aged 0 to 12 years to be read at bedtime.’
A ‘yarn’ is a rambling story, particularly one that is implausible, and poetry must be in traditional Australian ballad format. Michelle encourages writers to think of a modern version of Blinky Bill, Banjo Patterson, Dorothea Mackellar, ‘Wombat Stew’ (I add my own personal favourite ‘Snugglepot and Cuddlepie’) for a new generation of readers.
Michelle Worthington goes on to say ‘We would love aspiring authors of all ages to have the chance to be published in our next Anthology to raise money for Aussie’s doing it tough, with proceeds donated to the NSW Rural Fire Service’.
NOTE: ‘The winning entries will be included in an Anthology to be launched in October 2020, and all successful authors and illustrators will be invited as VIP Guests to the Pyjama Party Book Launch at the Queensland Children’s Hospital and locations around Australia during the launch month.’
For competition guidelines and entry requirements, visit the website to sign up for Share Your Story newsletter
https://shareyourstorypublishing.com/
Michelle Worthington is an international award-winning author and business woman. As Founder of Share Your Story Australia, she waves her wand to coach aspiring authors and illustrators all over the world to achieve their dreams of publication. Michelle is also available for speaking engagements, book signings and school visits. She runs diverse workshops, and if you are thinking of becoming a writer, check out Share Your Story or visit Facebook or contact Michelle for further information.
“In the summer of 2003, Gareth Evans walked the length of Wales from Cardiff to Holyhead, taking 28 days to cover over 500km and 18000m of ascent. Twenty-eight poems were inspired by the journey. Some are humorous, some are philosophical, some are descriptive and all are the product of quiet, solitary observation. Join Welshman Gareth as he probes deep into the heart of Wales.”
Here is one of his poems—
Turned to motionless stone by a great Welsh wizard
His red scaly back turned to a silvery grey
The most powerful dragon that ever lived
Is harnessed by a mysterious, magical spell
His elongated head peers down on the Llanberis lakes
His massive body full of spikes is a fearsome sight
His rock-studded spine slumped high above Ogwen
Gashes line his steep sides like old war wounds shooting down to Idwal
Gullies and arêtes form the webs of his folded wings
A bristly tail drops down suddenly, decorated by spectacular pinnacles
Before flicking up again with one last majestic sweep
To its triple-pronged tip soaring towards the heavens
The roar that once filled the valleys preserved forever
In the howl of the wind and the scream of the jets in Nant Ffrancon
His beauty is held in the eagles that now circle above him
He lives on in the spirit of the people of Wales
Courage and passion are mirrored in their eyes
And his fire still burns in the depths of their hearts
Poetry from “Deep Into the Heart of Wales”
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewPoetry.asp?AuthorID=8106
Wales Readathon 2020
https://bookjotter.com/2020/02/03/are-you-ready-for-wales-readathon-2020/
My Dewithon20 post
https://thoughtsbecomewords.com/2020/02/21/are-you-ready-for-wales-readathon-2020/
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
Edna St. Vincent Millay was born in Rockland, Maine USA, on 22 February 1892. Edna’s poetry and playwright collections include The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver (Flying Cloud Press 1922) winner of the Pulitzer Prize, and Renascence and Other Poems (Harper 1917)
Edna won a scholarship to Vassar College and became famous during her lifetime for her poetry with its passionate, formal lyrics, her flame-red hair, outspoken political views and unconventional lifestyle. She died on 18 October, 1950, in Austerlitz, New York.
Poets https://poets.org/poem/ebb
Poetry Foundation https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55993/renascence
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
Would you like to throw a stone at me?
Here, take all that’s left of my peach.
Blood-red, deep:
Heaven knows how it came to pass.
Somebody’s pound of flesh rendered up.
Wrinkled with secrets
And hard with the intention to keep them.
Why, from silvery peach-bloom,
From that shallow-silvery wine-glass on a short stem
This rolling, dropping, heavy globule?
I am thinking, of course, of the peach before I ate it.
Why so velvety, why so voluptuous heavy?
Why hanging with such inordinate weight?
Why so indented?
Why the groove?
Why the lovely, bivalve roundnesses?
Why the ripple down the sphere?
Why the suggestion of incision?
Why was not my peach round and finished like a billiard ball?
It would have been if man had made it.
Though I’ve eaten it now.
But it wasn’t round and finished like a billiard ball;
And because I say so, you would like to throw something at me.
Here, you can have my peach stone.
David Herbert Lawrence, English author, poet, literary critic (1885–1930) is regarded as one of the most influential writers of the 20th century.
Lawrence’s hard working-class upbringing shaped his life, and he wrote extensively about the experience of growing up in the poor mining town of Eastwood, Nottinghamshire. “Whatever I forget,” he said, “I shall not forget the Haggs, a tiny red brick farm on the edge of the wood, where I got my first incentive to write.”
A prolific writer and traveller, Lawrence earned fame for his earthy novels (some banned) and short stories, and subsequently received acclaim for his personal letters in which he detailed a range of emotions, from exhilaration to depression to ruminating on life and death.
The story of his ashes and final resting place makes intriguing reading on Poets’ Graves
https://www.poetsgraves.co.uk/lawrence.htm
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
When I first picked up Indrani Ganguly’s memoir-style book, I dipped into a couple of stories. It soon became apparent the pages contained a thoughtful mixture of poetry, artwork, travellers’ tales, photographs and fiction stories in a layout designed to gently lead the reader though Indrani’s world.
Chapters are grouped under different headings, the kind of book which anyone can read and everyone will find something that touches them.
The content captivated me with a mix of fact, fantasy and deep emotions initially triggered by Indrani’s return visit to her father’s house and her old room which had been left untouched since she moved out. This is where her thoughts begin to unfold, first with artwork and poems then a retrospective short story about her family titled ‘Menagerie Manor’.
As luck would have it, being a fan of crime novels, the first short story I read was ‘A Candle for Bob Carter’ in which plain-clothed Chief Inspector Bob Carter is on jewel-guarding duty at a swanky fancy dress Christmas party during a hot Australian summer. ‘We’ll turn the air-conditioning up dear,” says Leila as the sound system booms the obligatory yet incongruous ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’. Such a fun twist at the end.
Under the tribute heading Women Worldwide, I read in awe as determined elderly ladies went ‘Walking in the Land of the Gods’. Later I laughed out loud after reading ‘Durga Down Under’ a rather irreverent look at Durga, the Supreme Hindu Mother Goddess. The accompanying poems resonated with me, particularly ‘A Woman’s Solitude’ a brief respite before a hectic day. Under the title Travel Tales, Indrani writes with clarity and insight, transporting me to spectacular locations around the world. My favourite is Shimla in the Himalayas which also has a lovely photo of Indrani and her daughter Gitanjali on rugged little ponies.
In this deceptively compact hardback volume there is a lot to read and think about. ‘In My Father’s House’ is more than a treasury of family memories, Indrani’s words entertained and enlightened me. She is in tune with diverse levels of society and human nature as well as comfortable within herself and her writing.
In her foreword, Indrani says ‘I continue to look both backwards and forwards for ideas and inspiration’. I have already read and blogged her historical novel ‘The Rose and The Thorn’ and look forward to more literary adventures.
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
Indrani Ganguly was born into a Bengali family in Lucknow and now lives in Brisbane with her husband, son and daughter. She travels extensively around Australia, India and other countries.
She studied English Honours in Lady Shri Ram College, Delhi University, has a masters in Sociology from Jawaharlal Nehru University, and a PhD on the impact of British occupation on revolution and reform in Burdwan, now in West Bengal.
‘In My Father’s House’ was published 2015 by Unique Publications Delhi, and her novel ‘The Rose and The Thorn’ was published 2019 by Boolarong Press Brisbane.
Indrani’s website: https://indraniganguly139.wordpress.com/blog/
… Wordsworth as he tossed and turned and counted sheep, perhaps after a rollicking New Year’s Eve party. Hope you got some sleep once the brand new decade had dawned. Maybe reciting William’s poem can give you “fresh thoughts and joyous health!” in 2020.
William Wordsworth (1770–1850)
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;—
I’ve thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds’ melodies
Must hear, first utter’d from my orchard trees,
And the first cuckoo’s melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning’s wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
°°°°°°°°°°°°∇°°°°°°°°°°°°
William Wordsworth, born April 7, 1770, Cockermouth, Cumberland, England—died April 23, 1850, Rydal Mount, Westmorland, English poet whose Lyrical Ballads (1798), written with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped launch the English Romantic movement.
Encyclopædia Britannica an absorbing article written by Stephen Maxfield Parrish
♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward
Thoughts Become Words 
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