Biography of David Mitchell
David Mitchell,28, lives in Colchester, England, and was educated at Great Totham Primary School, Colchester Royal Grammar School, and the University of Durham. He graduated from Durham with a BA in Music and an MA in Performance. It was while he was at university - on the 11th May,2008 - that he was received into the Catholic Church; and Christian themes are to be found in much of his writing. After he left Durham, he worked as a freelance musician, mainly as a piano teacher and an accompanist for various musical societies. In September 2015 he began teacher training at Colchester County High School and the Stanway School. He worked at CCHS as a music teacher until the summer of 2017.
David began to write poetry in 2005 at the age of 16. His interest in poetry developed from some books his parents had in the house, and especially a very old copy of Francis Palgrave's Golden Treasury, which contains some of the finest lyric verse in the English language. To date, he has written over a hundred poems, many of which are available to read on the website PoemHunter.com.
In his spare time David likes to read, play the piano, and go for walks. He is interested in history, and enjoys visiting historic places.
David Mitchell Poems
The stars adorn the heaven at night, They beautify with gleaming light The sky of dismal hue; They shiver in the icy cold,
Les Quatre Saisons - The Four Seasons
Le printemps — la saison quand l'agréable tiédeur Recommence, apportant avec lui son bonheur,
There Is A God
That is what I firmly believe. I understand that some people find it hard to believe in God. So do we all, at times. We are human beings.
Why Is A Poet?
It is the part of the poet To tell his readers What they already know and know they know
Death And Life
If what follows this life Is a heaven without suffering, Where the recollection of past suffering Does not induce present suffering;
A Dark Poem
As languidly my feet plod home, My thoughts the universe o'er-roam; The silent stillness still inspires A muteness of Cimmerian choirs
The shining summer ages, dwindles, dies; The heat turns to the cold. The former azure hue of yonder skies Is hardly to behold:
Slender, swimming, silent swan! How gracefully you glide along! Your coat of white, purer than snow; You see, with lofty eyes, to grow
We exist: of that no sane person does doubt, Although there may pseudophilosophers be,
Spelling Is Compelling?
I turn the television on And what abysmal hell Pollutes the screen? What could it be But Eamonn Holmes' Hard Spell?
An Heroic Poem In Praise Of Coffee
Hail, magical and awe-inspiring bean, Salvation of the fat and of the lean, Blest refuge in this wretched vale of tears, Inspiriting the ever-rolling years;
The earth each day travels her weary round, Partly in sunlight, partly in darkness hid; Around the sun she goes without a sound, And nothing her trajectory can forbid:
What Is A Poet?
What is a poet? a person who writes And longs to ascend to Olympian heights; A person who's seized with irregular madness, Who's joyous when glad and depressed in his sadness;
A Late Evening Poem
The sun has sunk beneath the skies, But leaves a soft warm glow behind; And, climbing slowly down, he dies, Like me to heavy rest inclined:
The Forgotten Dream
I dreamed a dream a while ago —
What it was about I do not know;
For I woke up at the break of the day,
And all of my dreams were melted away.