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Wubbleyoo for Warren

April 26, 2019

town mouse

Delighted to appear under W for Warren in the lovely Liz Brownlee’s April A-to-Z blog challenge. Liz is not only a fine poet herself, but is also a dedicated Children’s Poetry Ambassador. Check out the whole alphabet and read some fab poems.

The poem on Liz’s site was first published in Star-gazing, Collins Big Cat Poetry.Star-gazing

Hurry over and by the end of the month you will have had the opportunity to meet at least 26 poets and taste their poems.



Nearly summer time

March 29, 2019

Well, not really! It’s spring, of course, but as far as the clocks go, it’s nearly summer time.

dandelion clock Celia Warren

“Well, I’m blowed,” said the late March dandelion clock.
“Time springs forward an hour this weekend.”
“Well, I’m blowed,” she repeated. “It’s come as a shock.”
And her flowerhead rapidly weakened.

© Celia Warren 2019

Don’t forget to put your clocks forward one hour at bedtime on Saturday night. As you’ll know if you’re familiar with my poems, I do enjoy a bit of wordplay and puzzles, too. So I was delighted to have a poem included in this new book of puzzle poems collected by Roger Stevens for Bloomsbury: I am a Jigsaw ISBN 978 1 4729 5819 8

I AM A JIGSAW anthology


From Christmas to Valentine’s Day

February 13, 2019

© Celia Warren 2019 mistletoe acrostic

It’s only a matter of weeks since people were hanging up mistletoe for Christmas – to satisfy a long-held tradition for lovers to snatch kisses beneath it – and now new mistletoe is appearing in trees around the countryside. These eye-catching balls of greenery bear berries, usually a whitish colour, on which birds love to feed. The berries are poisonous to people and other mammals, although not a killer. And while mistletoe might be classed as parasitic, it doesn’t destroy its host-tree. To me its presence is a beautiful green enhancement when the trees are otherwise bare.

After taking these photos (in Somerset), I decided to write the acrostic poem (above) to accompany the picture. It’s not often that I write acrostics, but they offer a fun challenge.

mistletoe © Celia Warren 2019

Happy Valentine’s Day for 14th February!

A robin is for life

January 8, 2019

… not just for Christmas cards. So I share with you this little robin enjoying a new year drink in our garden. The birds often brighten grey January days and, lately, they have been singing as if they knew that spring is just round the corner.

copyright 2019 celia warren

All my life the school term that begins in January has been called the Spring Term (in between the Autumn and Summer Terms). Yet this year, for the first time, I’ve seen it named the Winter Term. It seems a great shame to me. It was always the term when the most work and progress was achieved. It was a time for turning over a new leaf, a time for a fresh start – more akin to springtime than cold, fallow winter. For me it will always be the Spring Term, so here’s to 2019:

Blow away the cobwebs,
breathe clear air
for a new lease of life —
away with care:
A clean slate,
new beginnings,
no looking back —
a fresh innings!
A new year
to toot your flute:
make it yours
and bear fruit.

© Celia Warren 2019

Happy New Year to all my readers!

Wishing you Peace and Light

December 22, 2018

… and a seasonal measure of merriment.

C Celia Warren 2018.jpg

Santa Express

A train of light steams past the ferry:
Makes the river mirror merry.

© Celia Warren 2018

Poetry Zone Party and Book Launch

December 1, 2018

“Everybody who was anybody was there!” Well, that’s not strictly true – there were lots of lovely poets at the CLPE Centre on London’s South Bank recently – but lots of lovely absentee poets, too.

We were gathering to celebrate 20 years of The Poetry Zone, the fabulous online poetry site for children. The site is run by its originator, poet Roger Stevens, and provides a platform for children’s own poetry writing. Roger regularly runs competitions for children as well as showing interviews with poets and children’s poetry-book reviews.

The evening of celebration included readings and performances by a number of established poets – and new young child poets. Many of the poems appear in a celebratory anthology being launched at the event.

Here are just a few of us …PoetryZone_20 years_collage(From top left: Coral Rumble, John Agard, Celia Warren, Colin West, Michaela Morgan, Sue Hardy-Dawson, Roger Stevens, Laura Mucha.)

If you’re a child who likes writing poems and would like a chance to win a copy of this anthology Roger Steven’s Poetry Zone: A Celebration of Children’s Poetry – published by Troika – click here to find details.

Meanwhile, as I love reading poetry every bit as much as writing it, I’d like to share with you this little poem by Tennyson. Everybody who’s anybody (or nobody) should read it. (And if our revered Victorian poet-laureate could write about such an experience, then there’s hope for all of us.) As I wrote the opening line of this blog, it brought the poem to mind:

Somebody being a nobody,
Thinking to look like a somebody,
Said that he thought me a nobody:
Good little somebody-nobody,
Had you not known me a somebody,
Would you have called me a nobody?

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1896)



Centenary of The Great War’s Armistice

November 11, 2018

Blackawton Armistice Centenary Poppies collage

Towards the end of The Great War, two conscripted soldiers were standing shoulder to shoulder when an exploding shell scattered shrapnel into their trench. One was killed instantly. The other received a life-saving ‘Blighty one’ — temporarily lamed by shrapnel embedded in his foot — and was stretchered away to the safety of a sanitorium. The survivor was my grandfather. As a boy he had kept pet rats — used to carry them around with him in his pockets — which made the presence of feral rats in the trenches less upsetting for him than for many. It was hearing the story of the night he was enrolled for action, from his daughter, my mother, that inspired the poem below:

Soul-Mates, 1916

He sat there, pale and frozen, locked in fear
while, all around, the freshly harnessed men
waved their pints and drove away their troubles
the only way they knew, in drink and song.
When morning came their blurred heads turned to chalk,
goose-flesh trembled, no-one spoke a word;
he alone took on a new tranquillity,
his fear outreached itself and burnt away.
They looked and could not understand his calm,
not noticing his silence through that night,
when their bravado, raucous, loud and long
had swallowed up his lonely suffering.

Spirits cruelly dampened in the trenches,
strong men cried and glory lost its shine,
songs died in thin air, the music faded;
all-pervading squalor claimed their minds.

This man, whose long artistic fingers often
painted sunsets; sketched a gentle world,
reached out now to tame the rats; befriend them,
his intellect admired their ready skill,
saw sharpness in their clever speedy learning
to pierce the ration-tins of Nestle’s milk,
on either side, to make the sweetness flow;
their rodent wit resigned him to their raid.

Vermilion summer skies of English evenings
had moved this man to tears long before
the brutal war had forced him into khaki,
yet even now it could not steal his soul.
His fellow-men, their swearing and their cursing,
the dirt, the damp, the fear, the degradation;
all these he would have born in isolation,
had not his human spirit searched elsewhere:
companionship he found, at last, in rats.

© Celia Warren 2018

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The photo above shows the finished display of over 1000 knitted and crocheted poppies at Blackawton village church. It commemorates the centenary of Armistice Day at the end of WWI and includes 15 poppies that I crocheted.

pile of poppies crochet