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Lament by Gillian Clarke For the green turtle with her pulsing burden, in search of the breeding ground. For her eggs laid in their nest of sickness. For the cormorant in his funeral silk, the veil of iridescence on the sand, the shadow on the sea. For the ocean’s lap with its mortal stain. For Ahmed at the closed border. For the soldier with his uniform of fire. For the gunsmith and the armourer, the boy fusilier who joined for the company, the farmer’s sons, in it for the music. For the hook-beaked turtles, the dugong and the dolphin, the whale struck dumb by the missile’s thunder. For the tern, the gull and the restless wader, the long migrations and the slow dying, the veiled sun and the stink of anger. For the burnt earth and the sun put out, the scalded ocean and the blazing well. For vengeance, and the ashes of language.   Gillian Clarke She is from Cardiff and lives in Ceredigion. She was born on 8 th June 1937.   She lived in Barry for few year

"Telephone Conversation" Wole Soyinka The price seemed reasonable, location Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived Off premises. Nothing remained But self-confession. "Madam," I warned, "I hate a wasted journey--I am African."  Silence. Silenced transmission of Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came, Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully. "HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A. *  Stench Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak. Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered Omnibus squelching tar. It  was  real! Shamed By ill-mannered silence, surrender Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification. Considerate she was, varying the emphasis-- "ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came. "You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?" Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light

Abou Ben Adhem       by Leigh Hunt   Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold:- Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” the vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is mine one?” said abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel.   Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”   The angel wrote, and vanished.   The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blest, And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.     James Leigh Hunt   James Leigh Hunt was born on October 19 th 1784 in England.   When Hunt was a small child, his mother wa