Poetry Stirs The Heart by @KatyWalters07

Many years ago, I was given a book of Poetry published around 1900. My uncle cherished this precious volume and safely guarded it in his small book cabinet. I treasure the book to this day and often turn the pages. Some of the poems are by famous historical poets, and others are from the less famous. But all the poetry is so moving and often offer words to stir the heart or the mind.

Poetry Stirs the Heart

The poem below is a few lines proffered by a poet who gave only a Surname – Thompson.

TITLE:  BOOKS,       Thompson.

In my library, “There studious let me sit

And hold high converse with the mighty dead

Sages of ancient time as gods revered,

As gods beneficent, who blessed mankind

With art, with arms, and humanized

A world.”

This second poem was written by Lord Byron. He was one of the leading figures of the Romantic Movement.

TITLE:  BOOKS,       Byron.

But words are things, and a small drop

Of ink.

Falling like dew upon a thought

produces

That which makes thousands, perhaps

millions, think.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the third poem. He was an American poet and educator.

TITLE. BOOKS,       Longfellow.

Leave us heirs to ample heritages

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest

Sages.

And giving tongue unto the silent dead.

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Look for LADY LYDIA’S QUEST ~ On sale for 99¢!

Lady Lydia's Quest

About the book:

The Duke of Medhampton invited Lady Lydia Fowler and Lady Olivia Faversham and their families to a week-long round of festivities. It would be an exciting week of hunting, with dancing and soirees in the evenings. As it was the beginning of the Summer Season, the guests would include an influx of debutantes with handsome doweries and suiters with suitable titles.

On the first morning of their stay, to Lady Lydia’s horror, she discovers her dear friend Lady Olivia brutally murdered in her bed. Lord Sebastian Elton, the fiance of the slain young woman, is distraught. Overcome with grief, he vows to find and kill the fiend who took the life of his beloved Olivia.

 

My Study by @KatyWalters07

My StudyThe lounge area of my home—also known as my study—holds a special place in my heart. I think of carpets, sofas, the comfort of visits from lifelong friends and family, the surprise of birth announcements of children. I remember family birthday parties that took place in my study with cake, blowing out candles, and the making of secret wishes. Spring with French doors open to the scent of roses and horse chestnut trees. In whispers, I recall funereal buffets with soft weeping.

My study is the silent home of my soul; of thoughts unspoken, turning into novels and poetry tapped out onto a plastic keyboard.

My Study

A sunlit room of oaken beams where dreams

Stream flowing through fresh windows,

Searching scarred shadows, papers shown, reams,

Of prose, doomed epitaphs, mellow.

Pastel portraits of animals long dead,

Haunting, dog running, flowers, fields,

The spring of adolescence, blossoms fed

On a winter of shattered innocence, concealed.

 

Figurines from ancient dynasties,

Pagan, Hindu, Buddhist, and Abrahamic,

hover in the mist of lost loyalties,

Whilst the Virgin steps on the serpent’s hiss,

Outside the dark Cathedral of Trees,

Inspires, bringing sorrow to its knees.

Copyright: Katy Walters

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Click here to enter our May Contest. There are 5 chances to win!

 

Kingley Vale by @KatyWalters07

In Kingley Vale, near Chichester in West Sussex, England, nestles an ancient forest of yews over 2,000 years old, believed to be the oldest living organisms in Great Britain. Above this prehistoric combe stand The Kings Graves, otherwise known as the Devil’s Humps. They are supposed to be the graves of Anglo Saxon Kings and marauding Vikings.

In the hours of darkness, it is sometimes said that the ghosts of ancient Druids haunt the forest, mingling with the slain Anglo Saxons and slaughtered Danes. There are tales of the druids carrying out rituals and sacrifices in the hours of darkness, where the trees bleed and change shape moving amongst the ghostly figures of the dead and the living. For some, it is a place for spiritual healing; for others a place of dark rituals.

Buzzards have returned to Kingley Vale


Kingley Vale

Kingley Vale treads into my heart,

Its paths of loam roam arteries,

Twigs carve through capillaries.

Falling leaves sleeve the skin.

Ancient peat, fleshing feet.

Roots grope the hungering breath,

Feeding, raising Sorcerer and Druid.

Slain sacrificial maid long dead,

Leavens the bread of my emptiness.

Ghouls whisper in death stench groves,

Of Wicca, the Priestess, the dagger.

Owl’s eyes light the night, as the raven cries,

Covering terror’s screams and death’s moans,

On stone altar, the ravaging Warlock groans.

Moon Mother throws her silver lance,

Elf and fairy, gnome and crone,

Leap and weep in the ecstasy of dance.

The steel ping of the coca-cola tin,

Snaps my reverie,

Kingley Vale treads gently

Back into the caverns of my soul

Whispering, forever, whispering.

Copyright: Katy Walters, 1998

Kingley Vale Deer