Toby W

Biography

Hello, my name is Toby. I write poetry on a broad range of topies, from school bullying to poems that represent my love of history, from confrontational goats to political satire! I wrote a theatrical monologue for a theatre company called Encompass in 2012 called 'Miseret's Thought of the Day', based on BBC Radio 4's 'Thought of the Day', which I believe can be found somewhere in the murky depths of Youtube. I've also performed my own material at Keats House Museum, at multiple theatre production launch nights. I've been writing poetry for over 4 years now, but have never really put it 'out there' so to speak. So my resolution in 2018 is to start doing that and to set up a YouTube Channel. I hope you enjoy my poetry and do please provide me with any feedback (positive or negative). After all a content poet is no poet at all. Toby

Samples

The Power of Persuasion Was that a trick of the light? A phantom in the hall? Was that the scream of a poltergeist, Or the sound of a crying child? There’s a face I can see in the shadows, The smell of a haunted lover, The moaning of a Cromwellian soldier screams on Marston Moor! A door that creaks- The roof that leaks- The sink that taps at night. The power of persuasion, can cause all kinds of fright. I see a ghost in St. John’s church, I see a man stood by his grave, I see a bride who once was scorned, but then lived to a very great age. I see a fire that caused a death, A lady who died alone in her bed,- And was that the shadow of a cat by the shed? The leaves that rustle- The bell that chimes- The clock whose ghost appears at nine; The power of persuasion, will haunt us all tonight. The Onset of Autumn The straying of the changing days, As the leaves turn brown and whittle, whisper into nothing but dust in the autumn wind; As the rain gives way from a gentle tap tap to a heavier tat tat, and rattles and fizzes intense against the window pane that guards me; as the conkers crack and the acorns fall, and the nights grow dark and cold; They last so long, Eternity; The day’s a breath then gone. The pumpkin’s carved and the fireworks bang, the sparklers sizzle and we wrap up warm, sipping sweet-spiced wine as the flashing lights of the fireworks dazzle, like a thousand rainbows in the sky before us; As the birds migrate and the animals hide, finding their crevice for winter tide, and stash their dens with leaves and food, to sleep in peace till winter’s adieu; As we put on our jackets to the gush of wind, the bite of frost on the nose and ears, the lips laced, cracked and cold. Clearing the frost from the windows, the leaves from the lawn and acorns from the tree, before shaking it off each morning to start what little of day may come; the long dreaming days of summer an age away. The straying of the changing days, as the seasons amaze and the cold we embrace; into autumn, we march. A Prince, a Prince, a bonny Prince! A poem to Edward VI (1537-1553) A prince, a prince, a bonny prince, an heir to rule them all! He wears his crown and royal robes, and sits upon his tender throne. A child heir, of England fame, oh precious thing, a Tudor prince; Who meek but mighty stands in line, as son and heir to the tyrant king. Give us books with the words of Christ, that speak to us in mother tongue; Restore the faith we have in you, mighty King Henry’s son! A bonny prince, a bonny prince, A Seymour son, a Tudor Rose, Rules his dominions like the setting sun, Cut down by a plague of the lung. A blackbird is calling: This way, this way, to Heaven’s doors. Our prince, our prince, our bonny prince! His royal bones now cold and entombed. I wanna be your cup of tea I wanna be the taste in your tea and the brew that makes you stormy, I wanna be the Earl Grey’s warmth, that kisses and keeps you cosy; I wanna be the soothing sip that ah-s you while at work; and be that very mug of builders that quenches your morning thirst; I wanna be the honey lemon that always makes you smile, and be the one you moan to, over a camomile; I wanna be your PG Tips, your Yorkshire on the side, And love me like milk with one sugar, and keep me by your side; At night I’ll be your human cosy, that’s sure to keep you warm, And whatever life may throw at us, a cuppa will keep us calm. I don’t want much, just want your love, the Earl to your Lady Grey; And promise me for evermore that you’ll love me, like your tea. My lady in the meadow Often have I seen my lady walking in the meadow, The golden haired grain brushing at her ankles; The children laugh and play from a distance when their mother calls to them; And I look on, hazing in a pensive dream, Wishing this vision was my canvas. How the sun dimly shines on my heroic wish; My hopes but a cinder in the wild fires, Caused by nature’s clock, which seems to pass me by. Heartache, my old friend, you took your leave for far too long, But now you’re back to take your place among my counsel. Have you seen my lady walking in the meadow? You’ll sometimes see her gazing out; Like me, waiting for the lover’s course, Her eyes seem lost, a gaze-less stare, And loneliness is all that reigns in her life. She waits in a sour peace, Searching for what, she does not know; A face that is etched with the knowing of sorrow, A knowledge of which I know; For what do flowers matter in their natural beauty, Or the humble bee, which for us has lost its sting? For nothing in the world is beautiful without love. My lady in the meadow knoweth that; That’s why tears run down her mourner’s cap. Wandering around with the children playing, flirting with a rotten world Which gives so much to so few, as we stranded lovers search alone. In false or truth, to hope she gives her heart of stone; The honey-scent breeze cools the face, But still our tears flow to the earth. My lady in the meadow, I hope she never leaves; Yet I know she thinks of me, And wanders through the fields to see if I will be there tomorrow, the day after; But I fear that it will come to be that she will never set her eyes on me. I shall search every meadow; in sun, in rain and winter’s rage, we will search for each other till the end of our days; My lady in the meadow, keep looking for me; For the children cry and the butterflies cannot raise their wings to fly; Picture me and where I’ll be, And one day we will paint that canvas; The children will laugh and be children again, The butterflies will blossom and weave a coloured cope, will sing and dance at our request. But, to my lady in the meadow, I shall take your heart of stone; I shall be blind until my eyes set upon you; My ears will be shut to all the sounds of the world but your voice; Your phantom will haunt my dreams; And all the wind and hail will sallow, Commanded by our chance meeting, Our meeting in the meadow. The Opera Singer She breathed, For a moment, With the world beneath her feet. On stage alone, (But never was) The dropping of a pin was heard. She ranged her voice and sang out loud, So the Angels did reply: “Who is that girl, who sings so soft, Who makes the heart aflutter?”

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by Toby W

Cadaver (01/07/2017)

OCD (29/06/2017)

Grandad's Armchair (24/06/2017)

Driftwood (23/06/2017)

We'd Fly Rings Around the Moon (22/06/2016)

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/tobyw