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Rivers and Lakes Poetry Prompt: Be a Lake Poet

By Heather Eure 17 Comments

lake poets poetry promptConsidered part of the Romantic Movement, the Lake Poets were a group of English poets who lived in the Lake District of Cumberland and Cumbria, UK, at the turn of the nineteenth century. The three main poets of what has become known as the Lakes School were William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Robert Southey.

They were first described in a derogatory manner as the “Lakes School” by The Edinburgh Review, “the School of whining and hypochondriacal poets that haunt the Lakes.”Later they were described as “Lakers” with similar intent by the poet Lord Byron. This was a misnomer, as the group wasn’t born out of the Lake District, nor was it a cohesive school of poetry.

Interestingly, there was a bit of irony involved in readers’ perception of the School; inspired by reading the poetry they chose to visit the area, which in Wordsworth’s mind would destroy the very thing that made it special. He did end up writing an excellent guide to the region. After all, if you can’t shoo them away, write a visitor’s guide.

At the time, it seemed many of the first and second generation Romantic poets had a bit of a complex along with a strained relationship with the Lakes (apart from Wordsworth).  Author of the book, Romantic Poetic Identity and the English Lake District, Penny Bradshaw described the relationship:

For the most part other Romantic poets either struggle with a Lake Poet identity or come to define themselves against what the Lakes seem to offer in poetic terms.”

For Wordsworth, he chose to settle at Dove Cottage in Grasmere with his sister Dorothy, as the Lakes became part of his identity as a poet. Not just considered a nature poet, his poetry is about the organic relationship between people and the natural world.

A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and natural causeway, interposed
Between the water and a winding slope
Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy:
And there myself and two beloved Friends,
One calm September morning, ere the mist
Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
—-Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we
Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,
It was our occupation to observe
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore-
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,
Each on the other heaped, along the line
Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,
Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
Of dandelion seed or thistle’s beard,
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
Suddenly halting now–a lifeless stand!
And starting off again with freak as sudden;
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.
–And often, trifling with a privilege
Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
Either to be divided from the place
On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,
So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode
On Grasmere’s beach, than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
–So fared we that bright morning: from the fields
Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced
Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen
Before us, on a point of jutting land,
The tall and upright figure of a Man
Attired in peasant’s garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
“Improvident and reckless, ” we exclaimed,
“The Man must be, who thus can lose a day
Of the mid harvest, when the labourer’s hire
Is ample, and some little might be stored
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time.”
Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached
Close to the spot where with his rod and line
He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
To greet us–and we saw a Mam worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean
That for my single self I looked at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustained.-
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
The Man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was changed
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.
–Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
My Friend, Myself, and She who then received
The same admonishment, have called the place
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As e’er by mariner was given to bay
Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears

—by William Wordsworth

Try It

Think of an area around a lake or river. Describe the view—the landscape, the activity surrounding it—in fine detail. Put on your best Lake Poet attire and write a poem as a response to what you see or imagine.

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Featured Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem from Rick we enjoyed:

Eno

Let it be the river Eno,
and as if the map of where is wind,
it buckles in the autumn trees and grasses.

Back bent on a lift of limb,
I twist, as sap drops like alluviums scattered
on steep slopes, where water weakened in its course.

I would so quietly live
among the particles of light and air, a hue
ubiquitously hiding along guiding banks of green:

garden, rake, and handle,
yellow aging tear-shape falling,
wet and taken, leaf and ribbon

—by Rick Maxson

Photo by Pedro Fernandez. Creative Commons via Flickr.


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How to Write a Poem 283 high How to Write a Poem uses images like the buzz, the switch, the wave—from the Billy Collins poem “Introduction to Poetry”—to guide writers into new ways of writing poems. Excellent teaching tool. Anthology and prompts included.

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  • Author
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Heather Eure
Heather Eure
Heather Eure has served as the Poetry Editor for the late Burnside Collective and Special Projects Editor for us at Tweetspeak Poetry. Her poems have appeared at Every Day Poems. Her wit has appeared just about everywhere she's ever showed up, and if you're lucky you were there to hear it.
Heather Eure
Latest posts by Heather Eure (see all)
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Filed Under: Blog, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, Rivers and Lakes, writer's group resources, writing prompt, writing prompts

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Comments

  1. Donna says

    July 18, 2016 at 9:26 am

    “if you can’t shoo them away, write a visitor’s guide.”
    (Still giggling!) 🙂

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      July 19, 2016 at 11:21 am

      Glad you liked that one, Donna. 🙂

      Reply
  2. Rosanne Osborne says

    July 18, 2016 at 10:12 am

    Those Daffodils Again

    Wordsworth marks us with his host,
    leaves his impression of spring
    in our psyches. When winter’s thaw
    pokes blossoms through the fecund earth,
    I squirm again in Mae Hurst’s sophomore lit class,
    struggle to recite the sprightly dance
    without sounding silly, tortured
    that my unwilling mind will reject
    memorization at a crucial point,
    fearing that Victorian lady will purse
    her lips and suggest more attention
    to the book too often left on my dorm desk
    while I sought jocund company
    where I could find it.

    Reply
    • Donna Falcone says

      July 18, 2016 at 4:02 pm

      Rosanne, I love the story inside your poem! This really takes me back – 🙂

      great line here – I can smell the season:
      leaves his impression of spring
      in our psyches. When winter’s thaw
      pokes blossoms through the fecund earth,

      The first time I ever cut a class was on a spring day when the lawn was just so darn green and grass and may as well have been a hundred miles from the classroom. 🙂

      Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      July 19, 2016 at 11:37 am

      Oh I had one of those moments in school, as well. Spent a good deal of time looking for jocund company instead of studying, too!

      Reply
      • Rosanne Osborne says

        July 19, 2016 at 12:07 pm

        Sounds like we’ve all internalized Wordsworth–great fun!

        Reply
  3. Donna Falcone says

    July 19, 2016 at 11:44 am

    What I want from this lake:
    a flat stone and a smooth ride
    skip skippety skip.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      July 21, 2016 at 9:23 pm

      What a fun poem, Donna! It makes me smile.

      Reply
  4. Andrew H says

    July 21, 2016 at 2:20 pm

    Ah, the Lake District!

    One of my favourite places. I’ve been twice, and have had the privilege of sailing on the Ullswater, the lake beside Wordsworth’s daffodils.

    I stand along the bank, and have some thought
    To blueness of the wave and shaded grotto
    Where, so long ago, many a hand was dandled
    Into the deep greenness. Here, Wordsworth held his pen
    And shaded eyes that gleamed with unshed tears.
    Here poets came in darker days, when full of fears
    To gaze upon the greenness and the freshness,
    The Eden of England, rugged and soft at once
    With brooding height and shaded light.

    Now here I come, with less a pen and more a thought
    To hold in awe the blue-swept colour, magic in nature
    Curve holding bluff and shard of rock, yet still
    Enveloped in the gentle mists, softened and held
    Gently, as with a child that needs but one soft tender touch
    To know that it is loved. One can not help but sigh
    To look into the waters and to breathe the air, to hike
    The mountain trails of upland church, Yew and Oak
    Towards the clearing deepness of the sky!

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      July 21, 2016 at 9:25 pm

      How wonderful to have spent time in such a place! It’s nice to see you here Andrew and to read more of your poetry. I liked this one very much.

      Reply
    • Prasanta says

      July 24, 2016 at 11:05 pm

      I really like this one! It sure makes me want to “gaze upon the greenness and freshness.”

      Reply
  5. Prasanta says

    July 23, 2016 at 1:33 am

    The Lake District is a beautiful place. I actually visited Grasmere while on a study abroad semester in college. Great memories- thank you for reminding me!

    Lake Song

    I discovered the lake that summer
    Deliberately arriving to see stars at midnight
    Reflecting like white diamonds
    In silken waters

    I heard the crickets
    Familiar, comforting sound
    Lulled me to sleep as a child
    Like a soft, summer rain

    Under lacy pines nodding in the wind
    Lake responded calmly to questions
    With answers slow, no hurry to move

    Confined by a barricade of sand
    And wily weeds
    Lake whispered peaceful
    Songs of night while
    Lapping on the shore

    Winged creatures whisked around
    Interrupting the reverie
    Shining in the silvery glow
    Cast by the heavenly court

    I no longer hear
    The crickets
    Is that why I no longer
    Sleep
    Complicated stories now
    To unravel
    Strange tales now
    To weave

    But look beyond the horizon
    Wait for the break of dawn—
    For a lake song still sings tales
    And imparts a timeless wisdom.

    Reply
    • Andrew H says

      July 23, 2016 at 6:14 pm

      Loved the poem!

      I particularly liked this bit:

      Winged creatures whisked around
      Interrupting the reverie
      Shining in the silvery glow
      Cast by the heavenly court

      Reply
      • Prasanta says

        July 24, 2016 at 11:06 pm

        Thank you!

        Reply
  6. Katie says

    November 30, 2017 at 8:30 pm

    Often I get lost in a poem as lengthy as William Wordsworth’s “A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags”. With several references to historical or mythic characters that I don’t know I can get too lazy to Google them and end up confused or lost altogether. I’m glad in this instance that I chose to keep re-reading Wordsworth’s lines in this wise poem until I grasped the story. There is a beneficial reminder within it that we all would do well to heed:

    “Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
    what need there is to be reserved in speech,
    And temper all our thoughts with charity.”

    I know that like W. and his friends, I am too often quick to judge another before knowing their full situation. Here is a mirror cinquain that resulted from my reflection on W. Wordsworth’s poem “A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags” and the informative text in Heather’s post on the Lake Poets:

    “Lakes School”
    maligned you were
    The Edinburgh Review
    wrote you were whiny and “hypos”
    reproach
    Un-de-ser-ved
    as these poets wrote well
    enticing visitors to the
    District.

    Reply
  7. Jamison Baugh says

    February 21, 2018 at 6:41 pm

    Elvis was actually smart sufficient to persistently take the swimming-only route for shorter
    distances and the swim-run-swim path for longer distances https://math-problem-solver.com/ .
    So such applications are price trying solely as a result of they don’t actually
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    Reply

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