Martin Ward
Martin Ward Poems
Earth from Space
You look so beautiful:
putting on your finest face.
...
The Carrot Sonnet
My beautiful, orange, four-legged friend,
not a barking dog, nor a neighing horse:
...
Saint Teresa's Wisdom
(Based on Saint Teresa of Avila's words)
If you have love,
...
Adelard's Tree
(The Allestree Sonnet)
In Allestree, Adelard's Tree stands strong.
...
Never turn back
No Moon that night as the North Sea swelled,
Sending blinding rain in a North-East gale.
...
An Engineer's Epitaph
(Nottingham Road Cemetery, Derby)
Work of an unknown poet, transcribed
...
Essence of Spring
Like a favourite child,
you charm and beguile.
...
I am humble
To share your food;
Grown on the hillside
Where every inch of land
...
Six Hundred and Forty Santas
Children could not believe their eyes
as six hundred and forty Santas ran by.
...
The Jingle Jog Sonnet
Which one of these was the real Santa Claus?
Six hundred of them ran Markeaton Park.
...
The Field Needs The Plough
Bitter winds once teared
his face of furrowed land.
...
Martin Ward Biography
Poet, composer, martial artist and veteran athlete. Martin Ward is a member of the well-known Ward family of Derby that includes the former England footballer Peter Ward; Singer-songwriter Lucy Ward; artist Nicola Ward and Ultra Marathon Runner Richard Ward. Martin Ward won the John Nicholson Prize in 2011 for his poem 'Saltaire at 13 o'clock'. His poetry reflects many interests: Human nature; the natural world; Marathon and fell running; love; history and faith. Has featured in Derbyshire press for his ancestry tracing: Martin is descended from King Edward 1 and the Plantagenets, and is a distant cousin of HM King Charles111, Boris Johnson and Elvis Presley. George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) is Martin's 2nd cousin 5X removed and George Orwell (Eric Blair) is Martin's 5th cousin.)
The Best Poem Of Martin Ward
An Autumn Elegy
An Autumn Elegy
Turn the season,
golden morn.
Of fragrant mists,
where woodland scents
from under-foot,
infuse the moment
with crushed content.
When other muses
dance in Spring,
or laze beneath
an azure sky,
I feast upon
this ripened time,
intoxicated by your form.
Banquet of all seasons,
I take my fill.
Russet-red
before my eyes,
the pallet-mix
of nature's hand.
Geese squadrons
wedge the door
that lets in winter.
She does not die;
she does not sleep:
this adolescent,
mixed-up child.
Wise as an old man
with stubble chin,
that guards the concrete
smoothness held within.
You beg me
to Remember, Remember;
as if some melancholy
should hold me still.
You are no past lover,
nor transitory soul.
You do not wait
or call me to you.
I gaze as you turn
towards me once again.
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9/19/2024 5:07:10 PM # 1.0.0.1119
U are u from Splitsville crazy! ! !