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The Truth of Imagination

Welcome to a page dedicated to poetry from the past 200 years and to poet John Keats. Snippets of information on poetic lives, quotes and art to reflect the role of verse in our fast paced 21st century world. Suzie Grogan is a freelance writer and researcher who writes on literature, social history and health issues. Contact Suzie @keatsbabe on Twitter and visit her at www.nowrigglingoutofwriting.wordpress.com

Posts tagged writing

Apr 16 '12
Mar 12 '12

Am I proper writer now? I have a website!!

I have now got an official website which brings together information on everything I try and do with my life - including all my writing (including my two books) and research services and links to my blogs. Still grateful for any comments on its appearance - I did it all on my lonesome and am really quite proud of it…. :-)

Jan 3 '12
Dec 16 '11
On our return from this circuit, we ordered dinner, and set forth about a mile and a half on the Penrith road, to see the Druid temple. We had a fag up hill, rather too near dinner-time, which was rendered void by the gratification of seeing those aged stones on a gentle rise in the midst of the Mountains, which at that time darkened all around, except at the fresh opening of the Vale of St. John.
John Keats 1818. Walking in the Lake District with Charles Brown and visiting the Castlerigg Stone Circle. 
Photo crediy: Żaneta Miderska

On our return from this circuit, we ordered dinner, and set forth about a mile and a half on the Penrith road, to see the Druid temple. We had a fag up hill, rather too near dinner-time, which was rendered void by the gratification of seeing those aged stones on a gentle rise in the midst of the Mountains, which at that time darkened all around, except at the fresh opening of the Vale of St. John.

John Keats 1818. Walking in the Lake District with Charles Brown and visiting the Castlerigg Stone Circle. 

Photo crediy: Żaneta Miderska

Oct 31 '11

A Story for Halloween - The Marrow Spoon

Inspired by the master of all things spooky, M.R.James, I have written a short story entitled The Marrow Spoon and put it out on my blog. 

It is my first attempt at a little piece of Gothic so please feel free to comment (constructively - I am most awfully thin-skinned…) as I would be enormously grateful…

Oct 2 '11
Sep 24 '11
"“Writing fiction is for me a fraught business, an occasion of daily dread for at least the first half of the novel, and sometimes all the way through. The work process is totally different from writing nonfiction. You have to sit down every day and make it up.” —Joan Didion"
Sep 24 '11
William Blake 1757-1827. Portrait (1807) by Thomas Phillips 
Another beautiful poem about autumn, this time written by Blake, as the leaves here turn and for once the breeze is gentle and feathery clouds move slowly across blue skies.
 
To Autumn
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain’d With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
"The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing, And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.
"The spirits of the air live in the smells Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.” Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

William Blake 1757-1827. Portrait (1807) by Thomas Phillips 

Another beautiful poem about autumn, this time written by Blake, as the leaves here turn and for once the breeze is gentle and feathery clouds move slowly across blue skies.

To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain’d 
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit 
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest, 
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, 
And all the daughters of the year shall dance! 
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to 
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; 
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and 
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, 
Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing, 
And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.

"The spirits of the air live in the smells 
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round 
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.” 
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, 
Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak 
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.