Clattery MacHinery on Poetry

September 27, 2006

Poetry Festivals Worldwide: This weekend, the Dodge

Filed under: 21 century poetry, 21st century poets, Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, Austin International Poetry Festival, Beall Poetry Festival, Belfast Poetry Festival, Berkeley Poetry Festival, Burning Word Festival, by Bud Bloom, Carrboro Poetry Festival, Cork International Poetry Festival, Dancing Poetry Festival, Denver Poetry Festival, Edmonton Poetry Festival, Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, Guardian Hay Festival, Hay Fringe Festival, International Poetry Festival of Medellín, Jerusalem Poetry Festival, John Milton Memorial Celebration of Poets and Poetry, Kwani? Lit Fest Blog, Ledbury Poetry Festival, Los Angeles Poetry Festival and Noir Corridor, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac!, Manchester Poetry Festival, Massachusetts Poetry Festival, MassPOP, Milton Poetry Fest, Newburyport Literary Festival, North Carolina Festival of the Book, Ojai Poetry Festival, One Square Meter, Overload Poetry Festival, Palm Beach Poetry Festival, poetry, Poetry Africa, Poetry Can, poetry festivals, Poetry Now Festival, poets, pop culture, Portland Library Poetry Festival, San Francisco Poetry Festival, Sarah Lawrence Festival, Saratoga Poetry Festival, Seacoast Poetry & Jazz Festival, Silverton Poetry Festival, Skagit River Poetry Project, Sparrows Poetry Festival, StAnza, Struga Poetry Evenings, Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, Terry Plunkett Maine Poetry Festival, The Chicago Poetry Fest, Trois-Rivières International Festival of Poetry, Tucson Poetry Festival, WA Spring Poetry Festival, Wisconsin Book Festival — Clattery MacHinery @ 2:11 am





This Thursday, September 28th, the bi-annual Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival begins, and will last through Sunday afternoon. The organizers have planned a star-studded line-up of poets for 20,000 poetry fans, music, educational programs, food, the works, all for a bargain price of about $1 Million (to the foundation–tickets are less). It will be held at Waterloo Village in Byram Township in New Jersey.

(Edited/Updated from here for the 2008 festival)

Here is the page of performing poets:

Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival: Poets

Here is the weekend weather in Stanhope NJ: Stanhope

And here is the web site of the foundation:

The Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation




Poetry Festivals Worldwide


(The Hay)


Poetry festivals sponsored by good organizations take place around the world throughout the year, especially spring and fall. Below is a list of some of them. If you know any of them that are missing, please let me know.



                Aldeburgh Poetry Festival
                Austin International Poetry Festival
                Beall Poetry Festival
                Belfast Poetry Festival
                Berkeley Poetry Festival
                Burning Word Festival
                Carrboro Poetry Festival
                The Chicago Poetry Fest
                The Cork International Poetry Festival
                Dancing Poetry Festival
                Denver Poetry Festival
                Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival
                Edmonton Poetry Festival
                The Guardian Hay Festival
                Hay Fringe Festival
                The International Poetry Festival of Medellín
                Jerusalem Poetry Festival: One Square Meter
                Kwani? Lit Fest Blog
                Ledbury Poetry Festival
                Los Angeles Poetry Festival and Noir Corridor
                Lowell Celebrates Kerouac!
                Manchester Poetry Festival
                Massachusetts Poetry Festival
                John Milton Memorial Celebration of Poets and Poetry
                Newburyport Literary Festival
                North Carolina Festival of the Book
                Ojai Poetry Festival
                Overload Poetry Festival
                Palm Beach Poetry Festival
                Poetry Africa
                Poetry Can
                The Poetry Now Festival
                Portland Library Poetry Festival
                Rotterdam International Poetry Festival
                San Francisco Poetry Festival
                Sarah Lawrence Festival
                Saratoga Poetry Festival
                Seacoast Poetry & Jazz Festival
                Seattle Poetry Festival
                Silverton Poetry Festival
                Skagit River Poetry Project
                Sparrows Poetry Festival
                Struga Poetry Evenings
                Sunken Garden Poetry Festival
                Terry Plunkett Maine Poetry Festival
                Trois-Rivières International Festival of Poetry
                Tucson Poetry Festival
                WA Spring Poetry Festival
                Wisconsin Book Festival






September 24, 2006

The Babes in the Wood: a Randolph Caldecott Picture Book




Printed in Great Britain





author anonymous










The Babes in the Wood




                        Now ponder well, you parents deare,
                                    These wordes which I shall write;
                        A doleful story you shall heare,
                                    In time brought forth to light.

                        A gentleman of good account
                                    In Norfolke dwelt of late.
                        Who did in honour far surmount
                                    Most men of his estate.

                        Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
                                    No helpe his life could save;
                        His wife by him as sicke did lye,
                                    And both possest one grave.



                        No love between these two was lost,
                                    Each was to other kinde;
                        In love they liv’d, in love they dyed,
                                    And left two babes behinde:

                        The one a fine and pretty boy,
                                    Not passing three yeares olde;
                        The other a girl more young than he
                                    And fram’d in beautye’s molde.

                        The father left his little son,
                                    As plainlye doth appeare,
                        When he to perfect age should come
                                    Three hundred poundes a yeare.

                        And to his little daughter Jane
                                    Five hundred poundes in gold,
                        To be paid downe on marriage-day,
                                    Which might not be controll’d:



                        But if the children chanced to dye,
                                    Ere they to age should come,
                        Their uncle should possesse their wealth;
                                    For so the wille did run.



                        “Now, brother,” said the dying man,
                                    “Look to my children deare;
                        Be good unto my boy and girl,
                                    No friendes else have they here:

                        “To God and you I do commend
                                    My children deare this daye;
                        But little while be sure we have
                                    Within this world to staye.

                        “You must be father and mother both,
                                    And uncle all in one;
                        God knowes what will become of them,
                                    When I am dead and gone.”



                        With that bespake their mother deare:
                                    “O brother kinde,” quoth shee,
                        You are the man must bring our babes
                                    To wealth or miserie:




                        “And if you keep them carefully,
                                    Then God will you reward;
                        But if you otherwise should deal,
                                    God will your deedes regard.”



                        With lippes as cold as any stone.
                                    They kist the children small:
                        ‘God bless you both, my children deare;’
                                    With that the teares did fall.




                        These speeches then their brother spake
                                    To this sicke couple there:
                        “The keeping of your little ones,
                                    Sweet sister, do not feare:

                        “God never prosper me nor mine,
                                    Nor aught else that I have,
                        If I do wrong your children deare,
                                    When you are layd in grave.”




                        The parents being dead and gone,
                                    The children home he takes,
                        And bringes them straite unto his house,
                                    Where much of them he makes.




                        He had not kept these pretty babes
                                    A twelvemonth and a daye,
                        But, for their wealth, he did devise
                                    To make them both awaye.

                        He bargain’d with two ruffians strong,
                                    Which were of furious mood,
                        That they should take the children young,
                                    And slaye them in a wood.



                        He told his wife an artful tale,
                                    He would the children send
                        To be brought up in faire London,
                                    With one that was his friend.



                        Away then went those pretty babes,
                                    Rejoycing at that tide,
                        Rejoycing with a merry minde,
                                    They should on cock-horse ride.




                        They prate and prattle pleasantly
                                    As they rode on the waye,
                        To those that should their butchers be,
                                    And work their lives’ decaye:

                        So that the pretty speeche they had,
                                    Made murderers’ heart relent:
                        And they that undertooke the deed,
                                    Full sore did now repent.

                        Yet one of them, more hard of heart,
                                    Did vow to do his charge,
                        Because the wretch, that hired him,
                                    Had paid him very large.



                        The other would not agree thereto,
                                    So here they fell to strife;
                        With one another they did fight,
                                    About the children’s life:



                        And he that was of mildest mood,
                                    Did slaye the other there,
                        Within an unfrequented wood,
                                    Where babes did quake for feare!




                        He took the children by the hand,
                                    While teares stood in their eye,
                        And bade them come and go with him,
                                    And look they did not crye:

                        And two long miles he ledd them on,
                                    While they for food complaine:
                        “Stay here,” quoth he, “I’ll bring ye bread,
                                    When I come back againe.”



                        These prettye babes, with hand in hand,
                                    Went wandering up and downe;



                        But never more they sawe the man
                        Approaching from the town.




                        Their prettye lippes with blackberries
                                    Were all besmear’d and dyed;
                        And when they sawe the darksome night,
                                    They sat them downe and cryed.



                        Thus wandered these two prettye babes,
                                    Till death did end their grief;
                        In one another’s armes they dyed,
                                    As babes wanting relief.

                        No burial these prettye babes
                                    Of any man receives,



                        Till Robin-redbreast painfully
                                    Did cover them with leaves.













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