I'm not a limerick lover, even though the captions go back to my dear old Ireland, where my heart does go and these limited poems first began. Thanks to the youngsters for their Limerick and the lovalble beauty of it. Sophie is in a class by herself. Good poems should not be limerick-limited. 'Tis best to have poems like "The Windover":
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS, S.J.
-To Christ our Lord-
I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
I'm not a limerick lover, even though the captions go back to my dear old Ireland, where my heart does go and these limited poems first began. Thanks to the youngsters for their Limerick and the lovalble beauty of it. Sophie is in a class by herself. Good poems should not be limerick-limited. 'Tis best to have poems like "The Windover":
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS, S.J.
-To Christ our Lord-
I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
====
A limerick is so limited, while a poem can fly into one's heart where "million" is made into gold-vermillion.
Had I known there was a contest I might
have entered in with a good chance to win
but know I did not
and now it's too late
and my entry would have sucked anyway!