Hello Everyone,

Below we have our very first Poem-‘movie’-Presentation. What do you think? I am looking forward to receiving them tomorrow and taking the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of your creativity! From general observation, the quality of presentations are excellent. So well done, in advance.


‘The Flower-Fed Buffaloes’ by Vachel Lindsay

The flower-fed buffaloes of the spring

In the days of long ago,

Ranged where the locomotives sing

And the prairie flowers lie low: –

The tossing, blooming, perfumed grass

Is swept away by the wheat,

Wheels and wheels and wheels spin by

In the spring that still is sweet.

But the flower-fed buffaloes of the spring

Left us, long ago.

They gore no more, they bellow no more,

They trundle around the hills no more: –

With the Blackfeet, lying low,

With the Pawnees, lying low,

Lying low.

Blackfeet /Pawnees: Native American Tribes

‘Sonnet 29’-Edna St Vincent Millay


Pity me not because the light of day

At the close of day no longer walks the sky;

Pity me not for beauties passed away

From field to thicket as the year goes by;

Pity me not the waning moon,

Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,

Nor that a man’s desire is hushed so soon,

And you no longer look with love on me.

This I have known always: Love is no more

Than the wide blossom which with the wind assails,

Than the great tide that tread the shifting shore,

Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales:

Pity me that the heart is slow to learn

When the swift mind beholds at every turn.

‘So, We’ll Go No More A-Roving’ by George Gordon, Lord Byron


So, we’ll go no more a–roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,

Yet we’ll go no more a-roving

By the night of the moon.

‘Report To Wordsworth’ by Boey Kim Cheng


You should be here, Nature has need of you.

She has been laid waste. Smothered by the smog,

the flowers are mute, and the birds are few

in a sky slowing like a dying clock.

All hopes of Proteus rising from the sea

have sunk; he is entombed in the waste

we dump. Triton’s notes struggle to be free,

his famous horns are choked, his eyes are dazed,

and Neptune lies helpless as beached as a whale,

while insatiate man moves in for the kill.

Poetry and piety  have begun to fail,

As Nature’s mighty heart is lying still.

O see the widening in the sky,

God is labouring to utter his last cry.

Wordsworth: the English nature-poet William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Proteus: Greek mythology, a sea-god that used shells as wind instruments

Neptune: the Roman god of the sea

Insatiate: never satisfied

‘On The Grasshopper and The Cricket’ by John Keats

The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with hot sun,

And hide in the cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about a new-mown mead;

That is the grasshopper’s – he takes the lead

In summer luxury, ­- he has never done

With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

Mead: meadow

‘Lament’ by Gillian Clarke


For the green turtle with her pulsing burden,

in search of the breeding ground.

For her eggs laid in their nest of sickness.

For the cormorant in his funeral silk,

the veil of iridescence on the sand,

the shadow on the sea.

For the ocean’s lap with its mortal stain.

For Ahmed at the closed border.

For the soldier in his uniform of fire.

For the gunsmith and the armourer,

the boy fusilier who joined for the company,

the farmer’s sons, in it for the music.

For the hook-beaked turtles,

the dugong and the dolphin,

the whale struck dumb by the missile’s thunder.

For the tern, the gull and the restless wader,

the long migrations and the slow dying,

the veiled sun and the stink of anger.

For the burnt earth and the sun put out,

The scalded ocean and the blazing well.

For vengeance, and the ashes of language.

Cormorant, tern,  gull and wader –types of seabirds

Iridescence-a surface of shimmering colours


Dugong-large aquatic mammal

‘Dover Beach’ by Mathew Arnold


The sea is calm to-night.

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits; – on the French coast the light

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!

Only, from the long line of spray

Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,

Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,

At their return, up the high strand,

Begin, and cease, and then begin,

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles heard it on the Aegean, and it brought

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

Of human misery: we

Find also in the sound a thought,

Hearing it by the distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and the round earth’s shore

Lay like folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear

It’s melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Strand: beach

Tremulous: quivering

Cadence: rhythm

Sophocles: Ancient Greek tragedian

Aegean: the Aagean sea, located east of Greece

Turbid: muddy, unclear, confused

‘Marrysong’ by Dennis Scott

He never learned her, quite. Year after year

that territory, without seasons, shifted

under his eye. An hour he could be lost

in the walled anger of her quarried hurt

on turning, see cool water laughing where

the day before there were stones in her voice.

He charted. She made wilderness again.

Roads disappeared. The map was never true.

Wind brought him rain sometimes, tasting of sea –

and suddenly she would change the shape of shores

faultlessly calm. All, all was each day new;

the shadows of her love shortened or grew

like trees seen from an unexpected hill,

new country at each jaunty helpless journey.

So he accepted that geography, constantly strange.

Wondered. Stayed home increasingly to find

His way among the landscapes of her mind.

Charted: mapped