Post by maggiethecat on Feb 16, 2007 20:26:15 GMT -5
Oh, rducasey, I am honored that I provided you with your Poem of the Day! I hope your kids giggled at George and his IMMENSE balloon! That poem, as did many of those I know, came from my favorite book as a child:
The Golden Treasury of Poetry
Edited and with a commentary by Louis Untermeyer
Illustrations by Joan Walsh Anglund
Golden Press, New York copyright 1959
It is, simply, glorious. Everything you can imagine, from bits of The Bible to Shakespeare to limericks (!), Yeats and "The Highwayman" and disastrous George and "My Dog Trey," which still makes me all lumpy-throated, as does "The Fish," by Eleanor Bishop. The book was reprinted a few years ago in a facsimile edition (the illustrations are a bit mushy), but if you can get your hands on a copy, you'll have YEARS worth of poems for each day! I think it's the first book I'd grab in a fire, and my copy is battered and beaten and held together by many kinds of tape.
Here is "Griselda" by Eleanor Farjeon. Bet your kids will love it!
Griselda is greedy, I'm sorry to say.
She isn't contented with four meals a day,
Like breakfast and dinner and supper and tea
(I've had to put tea after supper -- you see
Why, don't you?)
Griselda is greedy as greedy can be.
She snoops about the larder
For sundry small supplies.
She breaks the little crusty bits
Off rims of apple pies,
She pokes the roast-potato dish
When Sunday dinner's done,
And if there are two left in it
Griselda snitches one;
Cold chicken and cold cauliflower
She pulls in little chunks --
And when Cook calls:
"What are you doing there?"
Griselda bunks.
Griselda is greedy. Well, that's how she feels,
She simply can't help eating in-between meals,
And always forgets what it's leading to, though
The Doctor has frequently told her: "You know
Why, don't you?"
When the stomach-ache starts and Griselda says:
"Oh!"
She slips down to the dining room
When everyone's in bed,
For cheese-rind on the supper-tray,
For buttered crusts of bread,
A biscuit from the biscuit-box,
Lump sugar from the bowl,
A gherkin from the pickle-jar,
Are all Griselda's toll:
She tastes the salted almonds,
And she tries the candied fruits --
And when Dad shouts:
"Who is it down below?"
Griselda scoots.
Griselda is greedy. Her relatives scold,
And tell her how sorry she'll be when she's old,
She will lose her complexion, she's sure to grow fat,
She will spoil her inside -- does she know what she's at? --
(Why do they?)
Some people are greedy. Leave it at that.
I must be a Griselda -- this poem always makes me hungry, especially that line about the little crusty bits off rims of apple pies.
The Golden Treasury of Poetry
Edited and with a commentary by Louis Untermeyer
Illustrations by Joan Walsh Anglund
Golden Press, New York copyright 1959
It is, simply, glorious. Everything you can imagine, from bits of The Bible to Shakespeare to limericks (!), Yeats and "The Highwayman" and disastrous George and "My Dog Trey," which still makes me all lumpy-throated, as does "The Fish," by Eleanor Bishop. The book was reprinted a few years ago in a facsimile edition (the illustrations are a bit mushy), but if you can get your hands on a copy, you'll have YEARS worth of poems for each day! I think it's the first book I'd grab in a fire, and my copy is battered and beaten and held together by many kinds of tape.
Here is "Griselda" by Eleanor Farjeon. Bet your kids will love it!
Griselda is greedy, I'm sorry to say.
She isn't contented with four meals a day,
Like breakfast and dinner and supper and tea
(I've had to put tea after supper -- you see
Why, don't you?)
Griselda is greedy as greedy can be.
She snoops about the larder
For sundry small supplies.
She breaks the little crusty bits
Off rims of apple pies,
She pokes the roast-potato dish
When Sunday dinner's done,
And if there are two left in it
Griselda snitches one;
Cold chicken and cold cauliflower
She pulls in little chunks --
And when Cook calls:
"What are you doing there?"
Griselda bunks.
Griselda is greedy. Well, that's how she feels,
She simply can't help eating in-between meals,
And always forgets what it's leading to, though
The Doctor has frequently told her: "You know
Why, don't you?"
When the stomach-ache starts and Griselda says:
"Oh!"
She slips down to the dining room
When everyone's in bed,
For cheese-rind on the supper-tray,
For buttered crusts of bread,
A biscuit from the biscuit-box,
Lump sugar from the bowl,
A gherkin from the pickle-jar,
Are all Griselda's toll:
She tastes the salted almonds,
And she tries the candied fruits --
And when Dad shouts:
"Who is it down below?"
Griselda scoots.
Griselda is greedy. Her relatives scold,
And tell her how sorry she'll be when she's old,
She will lose her complexion, she's sure to grow fat,
She will spoil her inside -- does she know what she's at? --
(Why do they?)
Some people are greedy. Leave it at that.
I must be a Griselda -- this poem always makes me hungry, especially that line about the little crusty bits off rims of apple pies.
) but I wonder if you could find them online? Which brings up the question, how has everyone in this thread been posting poems? Have you all been copying them out of books (as I did), or have you found a site where they can be downloaded?
