Category: Poetry Information

Two Poems by Wilfred Owen

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

Wilfred Owen (1893–1918) was a British poet whose powerful works provide some of the most poignant insights into the horrors of World War I. Born in Oswestry, Shropshire, England, Owen grew up in a lower-middle-class family. His early education sparked an interest in poetry, and he was influenced by Romantic poets such as John Keats. However, it was his experiences as a soldier during World War I that would most profoundly shape his poetic voice and themes.

Owen enlisted in the British Army in 1915, at the age of 22. He was initially enthusiastic about joining the war effort, driven by a sense of duty and patriotism. His perspectives, however, drastically shifted after witnessing the brutal realities of trench warfare. In 1917, he suffered from shell shock (now known as post-traumatic stress disorder) and was sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh, where he met fellow poet Siegfried Sassoon. This meeting proved crucial, as Sassoon became a mentor and friend, encouraging Owen to channel his experiences of war into his poetry.

Owen’s poems, written during the last two years of his life, are marked by their vivid imagery and intense emotional force. In stark contrast to romanticized portrayals of war, his poems expose war’s brutality and the suffering of soldiers. Works such as “Dulce et Decorum Est” and “Anthem for Doomed Youth” found below are renowned for their bold depictions of the physical and psychological trauma experienced by combatants. His use of half-rhyme, vivid descriptions, and shocking realism set his work apart from other war poetry of the time.

Tragically, Owen was killed in action on November 4, 1918, just one week before the Armistice that ended World War I. His death cut short a promising literary career, but his legacy endures through his powerful poetry, which continues to resonate with readers. Published posthumously, his work has become some of the most significant literary accounts of World War I, forever altering the perception of war in English literature.


Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.



Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
      — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
      Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; 
      Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
      And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
      The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.




The informational article above was composed in part by administering guided direction to ChatGPT. It was subsequently fact-checked, revised, and edited by the editor. The editor/publisher takes no authorship credit for this work and strongly encourages disclosure when using this or similar tools to create content. Sparks of Calliope prohibits submissions of poetry composed with the assistance of predictive AI.

Two Poems by John Milton

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments
John Milton (1608-1674)

John Milton (1608-1674) was a towering figure in English literature, best known for his epic poem Paradise Lost. Born in London to a prosperous scrivener, Milton received an exceptional education, attending St. Paul’s School and later Christ’s College, Cambridge. His deep classical knowledge, coupled with a fervent religious belief, profoundly shaped his literary and political career.

Milton’s poetry is marked by its rich language, intellectual depth, and complex themes, often exploring human existence, divine justice, and individual liberty. Paradise Lost, published in 1667, stands as his magnum opus and one of the greatest works of English literature. The epic poem recounts the biblical story of the Fall of Man, delving into themes of free will, obedience, and the nature of good and evil. With its grand style and powerful blank verse, Paradise Lost not only reflects Milton’s mastery of classical epic conventions but also his innovative approach to poetic form and narrative.

In addition to his literary achievements, Milton was deeply involved in the political and religious upheavals of 17th-century England. A staunch Puritan and republican, he served as a civil servant under Oliver Cromwell’s Commonwealth and wrote several influential pamphlets advocating for freedom of speech, press, and divorce, most notably Areopagitica (1644). His political writings reflect his commitment to individual rights and a deep suspicion of tyranny in all its forms.

Milton’s later years were marked by personal and physical hardship. He became completely blind in 1652, yet continued to write and dictate his works, producing Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes in his final years. Despite his blindness, Milton’s literary vision remained clear, his works continuing to inspire readers and writers with their exploration of the human condition, freedom, and divine justice. His influence can be seen in the works of later poets and thinkers, securing his place as one of the most important voices in English literature.

While Milton was most famous for his epic Paradise Lost, he wrote shorter poems such as these as well:


An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet W. Shakespeare

What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones
The labor of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a livelong monument.
For whilst, to th’ shame of slow-endeavoring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.



On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
    Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
    And that one talent which is death to hide
    Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent
    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
    My true account, lest he returning chide,
    “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
    I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
    That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need
    Either man’s work or his own gifts: who best
    Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
    Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
    And post o’er land and ocean without rest:
    They also serve who only stand and wait.”




The informational article above was composed in part by administering guided direction to ChatGPT. It was subsequently fact-checked, revised, and edited by the editor. The editor/publisher takes no authorship credit for this work and strongly encourages disclosure when using this or similar tools to create content. Sparks of Calliope prohibits submissions of poetry composed with the assistance of predictive AI.

Two Poems by Matthew Arnold

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) was a prominent English poet, cultural critic, and educator who made significant contributions to Victorian literature and thought. Born into an intellectually distinguished family, Arnold was the son of the renowned headmaster Thomas Arnold of Rugby School, which deeply influenced his perspectives on education and culture.

Arnold’s poetry is often characterized by its reflection on the spiritual and emotional challenges of the modern age, as well as its exploration of human isolation and the loss of faith in an increasingly industrialized and secular world. His most famous poem, “Dover Beach,” epitomizes these themes, portraying a world where the “Sea of Faith” has retreated, leaving humanity exposed to the harsh realities of existence. The melancholy tone and contemplative style of Arnold’s poetry have cemented his place as a leading figure of Victorian poetry, bridging the gap between Romanticism and Modernism.

In addition to his poetry, Arnold was a formidable critic and essayist, particularly known for his works on cultural and literary criticism. His collection of essays, Culture and Anarchy (1869), remains one of his most influential works. In it, Arnold argued for the importance of “culture”—which he defined as the pursuit of perfection through knowledge and appreciation of the arts—as a means of countering the anarchy of industrial society. He believed that culture could act as a unifying force, bringing together different social classes and fostering moral and intellectual improvement.

Arnold’s work as an inspector of schools for over three decades also had a lasting impact on English education. His reports and writings on education emphasized the need for broad access to quality education and the importance of fostering a well-rounded, humane curriculum.

Though his poetry often reflects a sense of loss and disillusionment, Arnold’s commitment to cultural and educational ideals demonstrates his belief in the possibility of human improvement and the power of intellectual and moral development. His contributions to both literature and cultural criticism have left a lasting legacy, influencing not only his contemporaries but also future generations of writers and thinkers.

“Dover Beach” and “The Buried Life” are a couple of his better known poems:


Dover Beach

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.


The Buried Life

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there’s a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal’d
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal’d
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick’d in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain’d;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain’d!

Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be—
By what distractions he would be possess’d,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity—
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being’s law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us—to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress’d.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well—but ‘t is not true!
And then we will no more be rack’d
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only—but this is rare—
When a belovèd hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen’d ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress’d—
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life’s flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.




The informational article above was composed in part by administering guided direction to ChatGPT. It was subsequently fact-checked, revised, and edited by the editor. The editor/publisher takes no authorship credit for this work and strongly encourages disclosure when using this or similar tools to create content. Sparks of Calliope prohibits submissions of poetry composed with the assistance of predictive AI.

Sparks of Calliope Celebrates 5 Years of Poetry

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

On July 1, 2019, Sparks of Calliope published its first of many insightful poems by talented poets from all across the English-speaking world. Five years, hundreds of poets, over 600 posts, and tens of thousands of views later, we are still going strong thanks to our readers and contributors who continue to engage with us. Thank you for continuing to read, support, and submit to our literary endeavor! We are excited to see what the next five years brings!

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Two Poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments
Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1889

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), an English poet and Jesuit priest, was largely unrecognized for his poetic contributions during his lifetime. Posthumously, Hopkins has been celebrated for his innovative use of language and rhythm, as well as the deep spiritual and nature-oriented themes in his work.

Hopkins was profoundly influenced by his religious faith, which permeated much of his poetry. His critical view of the industrial revolution’s impact on nature, combined with his unique prosody—termed “sprung rhythm”—and vivid imagery, positioned him as a precursor to modernist poets. The fluctuating recognition of literary figures often reflects the evolving tastes and critical frameworks of successive generations rather than an objective measure of their work’s value within their own time.

The eldest of nine children, Hopkins was educated at Highgate School and Balliol College, Oxford. After converting to Catholicism under the influence of John Henry Newman, he entered the Society of Jesus in 1868. His commitment to his vocation led him to burn his early poems, only to be encouraged to write again later by his religious superiors. Hopkins’ poetry remained largely unpublished until after his death, with his friend Robert Bridges playing a significant role in bringing his works to public attention.

Hopkins’ most recognizable poems include “The Windhover” and “Spring and Fall: To a Young Child,” both of which are found below.


The Windhover

To Christ our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
    dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
    Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
    As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
    Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
       Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

       No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
       Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.


Spring and Fall

To a young child

Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.




The informational article above was composed in part by administering guided direction to ChatGPT. It was subsequently fact-checked, revised, and edited by the editor. The editor/publisher takes no authorship credit for this work and strongly encourages disclosure when using this or similar tools to create content. Sparks of Calliope prohibits submissions of poetry composed with the assistance of predictive AI.

And the winner is…

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Sparks of Calliope is pleased to announce its nomination of

“My Father Remembers” by Laurie Kuntz

has been selected for inclusion in Pushcart Prize XLIX (2025 edition).

Congratulations, Laurie!




Read “My Father Remembers” in Sparks of Calliope here.

In accordance with the contract provided by Pushcart Press, Sparks of Calliope and Ms. Laurie Kuntz will receive a copy of this edition of the anthology, and Ms. Kuntz will be appointed to the editorial board for all future editions.

It was bound to happen eventually…

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 7 Comments

Dear Reader,

As a literary journal, there is often more risk than reward, but as a labor of love we carry on. The more cynical among us might even agree that misfortune strikes eventually should you travel any road long enough. As an editor, you really want pick the diamonds in the rough, and while you try to vet every submission you receive meticulously, you tell yourself that you can’t possibly catch everything. So, while I have tried to do right by you and will continue to do so, it seems that on one occasion I failed. You see… there is a plagiarist among us.

On September 22, 2023, I published two poems entitled “Harbor” and “Dislocated” allegedly written by a Mr. John Kucera (aka John Siepkes). And while they say imitation is the best form of flattery, these poems were copied with only a couple word changes from poems published in The Hudson Review entitled “Neilah; Creature” by Bruce Bond and in Claw and Blossom entitled “The Q & A Section” by Dorsía Smith Silva. This is intellectual property theft on the part of Mr. Kucera. I am profoundly sorry for the editorial oversight and hope Mr. Kucera is appropriately ashamed of himself.

I am replacing Mr. John Kucera’s plagiarized work with links to the original poems and removing Mr. Kucera from our list of contributors. I commend Mr. Bond and Professor Silva on the quality of their poems and extend my apology to them as well.

I am grateful to the editor of another literary journal who also inadvertently published a plagiarized poem submitted by Mr. Kucera and was kind enough to bring this matter to my attention.

Two Poems by Elizabeth I, Queen of England and Ireland

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment
Elizabeth I (1533 – 1603)

Elizabeth I, Queen of England and Ireland from 1558 to 1603, made significant contributions to English poetry during the Renaissance era. Her reign is often referred to as the Elizabethan Age, a period marked by flourishing arts and culture. Elizabeth I herself was not only a political figure but also a patron of the arts, supporting and influencing the literary endeavors of her time.

One of the notable aspects of Elizabeth’s impact on poetry was her support for poets at her court. She surrounded herself with a circle of talented writers, including some of the most celebrated poets of the period such as Sir Philip Sidney and Edmund Spenser. The court became a vibrant hub for literary activity, fostering creativity and innovation in poetry.

Elizabeth I also played a role as a poet herself. She was well-educated and fluent in multiple languages, allowing her to engage in literary pursuits. Her own works, often written in Latin, French, and English, showcased her intellect and poetic prowess. Her poem “On Monsieur’s Departure” is a poignant exploration of love and loss, reflecting the complexities of her personal life.

Moreover, Elizabeth I’s reign witnessed the rise of the Elizabethan sonnet tradition. The sonnet, a fourteen-line poetic form, gained popularity during this era, and poets like Sir Philip Sidney and William Shakespeare made significant contributions to its development. Elizabethan sonnets often explored themes of love, beauty, and nature, reflecting the intellectual and emotional richness of the time.

Elizabeth I’s influence extended beyond her lifetime, as her patronage and support laid the groundwork for the flourishing of English literature in the subsequent Jacobean era. The cultural and literary legacy of the Elizabethan Age endured for centuries, shaping the trajectory of English poetry.

In summary, Elizabeth I’s contribution to English poetry was multifaceted. As a patron of the arts, she created a nurturing environment for poets at her court. Additionally, her own poetic endeavors and the cultural milieu she fostered contributed to the vibrant literary landscape of the Elizabethan Age, leaving an indelible mark on English poetry.

Two of Elizabeth’s better known poems can be read below.


On Monsieur’s Departure

I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be supprest.

Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low.
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die and so forget what love ere meant.


When I Was Fair and Young

When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where; importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,
How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,
But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus’ son, that proud victorious boy,
Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,
I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast
That neither night nor day I could take any rest.
Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.




The informational article above was composed in part by administering guided direction to ChatGPT. It was subsequently fact-checked, revised, and edited by the editor. The editor/publisher takes no authorship credit for this work and strongly encourages disclosure when using this or similar tools to create content. Sparks of Calliope prohibits submissions of poetry composed with the assistance of predictive AI.

Two Poems by James McIntyre

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment
James McIntyre (1828 – 1906)

Everyone has certain things to be thankful for which come to mind around this time of year, and were Scottish born Canadian poet James McIntyre still alive, his might be achieving immortal literary fame despite being named by some critics as “The Worst Poet in History.”

James McIntyre (1828-1906) was a 19th-century Canadian poet, famously known as the “Cheese Poet” due to his unconventional choice of subjects for his verses. Born in Forres, Scotland, McIntyre emigrated to Canada in 1841, settling in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he worked as a stonemason.

Despite lacking formal education, McIntyre possessed a keen interest in poetry. His poetic endeavors gained recognition when he began composing verses that celebrated the dairy industry, particularly his ode to cheese. McIntyre’s light-hearted and whimsical poems often centered around everyday life, nature, and his surroundings.

One of his most well-known works, “Ode on the Mammoth Cheese,” humorously pays homage to a mammoth cheese produced in Ingersoll. McIntyre’s verses, characterized by their playful and sometimes satirical tone, garnered him local fame, earning him the title of the “Cheese Poet.”

While McIntyre’s poetry may not have been embraced by literary elites of his time, his work resonated with the ordinary people of Ontario. His poems were published in local newspapers, contributing to his popularity in the region. Despite the seemingly mundane nature of his chosen themes, McIntyre’s poems reflect a genuine love for his community and a unique perspective on the world around him during his lifetime.

James McIntyre’s legacy endures as a charming and eccentric, though not overly-talented, figure in Canadian literary history. His ability to find inspiration in the everyday, even in the humble cheese, sets him apart as a poet who celebrated the ordinary in an extraordinary way. McIntyre’s unconventional approach to poetry has perhaps left an indelible mark, ensuring that he is remembered not only as the “Cheese Poet” but also as a distinctive voice in the rich tapestry of Canadian literature.

Below are a couple examples of McIntyre’s odes.


Thanksgiving Ode, November 15, 1888

 September came and with it frost
 The season’s pasture it seemed lost,
 And the wondrous yield of corn
 Of its green beauty it was shorn.

 Frost it came like early robber,
 But gentle rains came in October,
 Which were absorbed by grateful soil;
 With green once more the pastures smile.

 And cows again are happy seen
 Enjoying of the pastures green,
 And flow of milk again they yield
 From the sweet feed of grassy field.

 And we have now a fine November,
 Warmer far than in September;
 The apple, which is queen of fruits,
 Was a good crop and so is roots.

 The rains they did replenish springs,
 And it gratitude to each heart brings,
 When we reflect on bounteous season,
 For grateful feelings all have reason.


Ode on the Mammoth Cheese

Weight over seven thousand pounds.

We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

Cows numerous as a swarm of bees,
Or as the leaves upon the trees,
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled, queen of cheese.

May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great world’s show at Paris.

Of the youth beware of these,
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek, then songs or glees
We could not sing, oh! queen of cheese.

We’rt thou suspended from balloon,
You’d cast a shade even at noon,
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.


The informational article above was composed in part by administering guided direction to ChatGPT. It was subsequently fact-checked, revised, and edited by the editor. The editor/publisher takes no authorship credit for this work and strongly encourages disclosure when using this or similar tools to create content. Sparks of Calliope prohibits submissions of poetry composed with the assistance of predictive AI.

Two Poems Submitted by a Plagiarist

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Harbor

The poem formerly published here was actually a plagiarized version of a wonderful poem by Bruce Bond entitled “Neilah; Creature” which was published in The Hudson Review. Please take the time to read his poem there.

Dislocated

The poem formerly published here was actually a plagiarized version of a wonderful poem by Professor Dorsía Smith Silva entitled “The Q & A Section” which was published in Claw and Blossom. Please take the time to read her poem there.

You can read our response to the matter here.