Kizzia Mildmay

and, thanks to the power of technology, in an hour the first of twelve of my favourite poems – all of which you’ll eventually be able to find via my #kizziadoesnationalpoetryday tag – will appear on my tumblr, twitter and facebook without me physically doing anything. The other eleven remain waiting patiently in the queue for their star turn, and will appear each subsequent hour until the day is over.

This post, too, is coming to you via queue because I couldn’t guarantee I’d be able to have a break at the right time. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t comment on it. I’ll be checking back once I get home and I’d love to have some poetry chit-chat!

Anyway, enough of me marvelling at the sheer brilliance of technology (which I’ve used before but never with purpose), it’s National Poetry Day, let’s talk about poems!

When I was very small one of my most favouritest of things was to climb into Mum’s bed first thing in the morning and have poems read to me from the book that lived in her bedside drawer. I can’t remember what it was called but the cover was sky blue and there was a drawing of a carousel on the front. I also can’t recall all the poems that were in there, but there are some that have remained incredibly vivid and I can still hear Mum reading them to me now. This is the one that I recall most often:

Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea,
Silver buckles on his knee;
He’ll come back and marry me,
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

Bobbu Shaftoe’s tall and slim,
He’s always dressed so neat and trim,
The lassies they all keek at him,
Bonny Bobbie Shaftoe.

Bobby Shaftoe’s bright and fair,
Combing down his yellow hair;
He’s my ain for ever mair,
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

I’m not entirely sure why this particular poem is the one that has stuck so firmly in my mind, other than that Mum would sing it rather than simply recite it, but it has. I only have to think of it and I’m back in that bed, snuggled cosily under the duvet in Mum’s arms, drifting away with the rhythms and rhymes.

Poetry is magic beyond words. No other written medium can so completely bewitch your mood and befuddle your senses*. Poetry paints pictures not only with the meanings of the words and phrases used to build it, but with its beat, its stanzas, and even how the poet has laid it out on the page. Poetry is hard to do well, but in both creating and consuming, it brings a light to your soul that no other experience can compare with. Or at least, that is how I feel about it.

If you’re going to any Poetry Society events today I hope you have a wonderful time, and if you’re sharing your own favourite poems on twitter or tumblr, feel free to tag me because I’d love to share!