My favorite poet is....

RONALD DAHL! Not only does he writes nice stories, he writes fantastic poem too! His poems are way funny and it never fails to rhyme. One example is the poem in my last post, titled ' the pig' . Isn't it funny? I feel that Ronald Dahl has lots of creativity, many of his poems are funny and fresh. He put his heart and mind to write a good poem. The poem can make a reader so engrossed in the poem that he will never put his head up before he finish reading! There was one time I borrowed a book from school, and was on the bus home, the trip was supposed to be 15 minutes and never had I once miss my stop(cuz its my home.) I opened the book and read it, without knowing, I finished the whole book of poem, I looked up and was really shocked! I've been on the bus for half an hour! My gosh! Time really flies! Well, you may not believe me. Nevermind, for now, I shall introduce you to his life!

Roald Dahl (13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990) was a British novelist, short story writer and screenwriter, born in Wales of Norwegian parents. After serving in the Royal Air Force during the Second World War, in which he became a flying ace, he rose to prominence in the 1940s with works for both children and adults, and became one of the world's bestselling authors. His short stories are known for their unexpected endings, and his children's books for their unsentimental, often very dark humour. Some of his most popular books include The Twits, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach, Matilda, The Witches and The BFG.

Roald Dahl was born in Llandaff, Cardiff, Wales in 1916, to Norwegian parents, Harald Dahl and Sofie Magdalene Dahl (née Hesselberg). Dahl's father had moved from Norway and settled in Cardiff in the 1880s, and his mother came over to marry his father in about 1910. Roald was named after the polar explorer Roald Amundsen, a national hero in Norway at the time. He spoke Norwegian at home with his parents and sisters. Dahl and his sisters were christened at the Norwegian Church, Cardiff, where their parents worshipped.

In 1920, when Roald was still only three years old, his seven-year-old sister, Astri, died from appendicitis. Just weeks later, his father died of pneumonia at the age of 57, following grief from his daughter's death. Dahl's mother, however, decided not to return to Norway to live with her relatives, but to remain in Wales since it had been her husband's wish to have their children educated in British schools as he felt they were the best in the world.

Dahl first attended The Cathedral School, Llandaff. At the age of eight, he and four of his friends were caned by the headmaster after putting a dead mouse in a jar of sweets at the local sweet shop, which was owned by a "mean and loathsome" old woman called Mrs Pratchett (wife of blacksmith David Pratchett). This was known amongst the five boys as the "Great Mouse Plot of 1924". This was Roald's own idea.

Thereafter, he was sent to several boarding schools in England, including Saint Peter's in Weston-super-Mare. His parents had wanted Roald to be educated at a British public school and at the time, due to a then regular boat link across the Bristol Channel, this proved to be the nearest. His time at Saint Peter's was an unpleasant experience for him. He was very homesick and wrote to his mother almost every day, but never revealed to her his unhappiness, being under the pressure of school censorship. Only after her death in 1967 did he find out that she had saved every single one of his letters, in small bundles held together with green tape. He later attended Repton School in Derbyshire, where, according to his autobiography Boy, a friend named Michael was viciously caned by headmaster Geoffrey Fisher, the man who later became the Archbishop of Canterbury and crowned the Queen in 1953. This caused Dahl to "have doubts about religion and even about God".^[1]

Dahl was very tall, reaching 6'6" (1.98m) in adult life,^[2] and he was good at sports, being made captain of the school fives and squash teams, and also playing for the football team. This helped his popularity. He developed an interest in photography. During his years there, Cadbury, the chocolate company, would occasionally send boxes of new chocolates to the school to be tested by the pupils. Dahl himself apparently used to dream of inventing a new chocolate bar that would win the praise of Mr Cadbury himself, and this proved the inspiration for him to write his third book for children, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which was released in 1963.

Throughout his childhood and adolescent years, Dahl spent his summer holidays with his mother's family in their native Norway, mostly enjoying the fjords. His childhood and first job selling kerosene in Midsomer Norton and surrounding villages in Somerset are the subject of his autobiographical work, Boy: Tales of Childhood.

After finishing his schooling, he spent three weeks hiking through Newfoundland with a group called the Public Schools' Exploring Society (now known as BSES Expeditions). In July 1934, he joined the Shell Petroleum Company.

Following two years of training in the UK, he was transferred to Dar-es-Salaam, Tanganyika (now Tanzania). Along with the only two other Shell employees in the entire territory, he lived in luxury in the Shell House outside Dar-es-Salaam, with a cook and personal servants. While out on assignments supplying oil to customers across Tanganyika, he encountered black mambas and lions, amongst other wildlife.^[1]

(Adapted from Wikipedia)

Since you wont probably believe me, I shall present to you 3 poems from him!\

The Three Little Pigs

The animal I really dig, Above all others is the pig. Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever, Pigs are courteous. However, Now and then, to break this rule, One meets a pig who is a fool. What, for example, would you say, If strolling through the woods one day, Right there in front of you you saw A pig who'd built his house of STRAW? The Wolf who saw it licked his lips, And said, "That pig has had his chips." "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" "No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!" "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!" The little pig began to pray, But Wolfie blew his house away. He shouted, "Bacon, pork and ham! Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!" And though he ate the pig quite fast, He carefully kept the tail till last. Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated. Surprise, surprise, for soon he noted Another little house for pigs, And this one had been built of TWIGS! "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" "No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!" "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!" The Wolf said, "Okay, here we go!" He then began to blow and blow. The little pig began to squeal. He cried, "Oh Wolf, you've had one meal! Why can't we talk and make a deal? The Wolf replied, "Not on your nelly!" And soon the pig was in his belly. "Two juicy little pigs!" Wolf cried, "But still I'm not quite satisfied! I know how full my tummy's bulging, But oh, how I adore indulging." So creeping quietly as a mouse, The Wolf approached another house, A house which also had inside A little piggy trying to hide. "You'll not get me!" the Piggy cried. "I'll blow you down!" the Wolf replied. "You'll need," Pig said, "a lot of puff, And I don't think you've got enough." Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew. The house stayed up as good as new. "If I can't blow it down," Wolf said, I'll have to blow it up instead. I'll come back in the dead of night And blow it up with dynamite!" Pig cried, "You brute! I might have known!" Then, picking up the telephone, He dialed as quickly as he could The number of red Riding Hood. "Hello," she said. "Who's speaking? Who? Oh, hello, Piggy, how d'you do?" Pig cried, "I need your help, Miss Hood! Oh help me, please! D'you think you could?" "I'll try of course," Miss Hood replied. "What's on your mind...?" "A Wolf!" Pig cried. "I know you've dealt with wolves before, And now I've got one at my door!" "My darling Pig," she said, "my sweet, That's something really up my street. I've just begun to wash my hair. But when it's dry, I'll be right there." A short while later, through the wood, Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood. The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze, And yellowish, like mayonnaise. His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw, And spit was dripping from his jaw. Once more the maiden's eyelid flickers. She draws the pistol from her knickers. Once more she hits the vital spot, And kills him with a single shot. Pig, peeping through the window, stood And yelled, "Well done, Miss Riding Hood!" Ah, Piglet, you must never trust Young ladies from the upper crust. For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes, Not only has two wolfskin coats, But when she goes from place to place, She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELING CASE. Television The most important thing we've learned, So far as children are concerned, Is never, NEVER, NEVER let Them near your television set -- Or better still, just don't install The idiotic thing at all. In almost every house we've been, We've watched them gaping at the screen. They loll and slop and lounge about, And stare until their eyes pop out. (Last week in someone's place we saw A dozen eyeballs on the floor.) They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnotised by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keeps them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink -- But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD! IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD! IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND! IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND! HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE! HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE! HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES! 'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain!' We'll answer this by asking you, 'What used the darling ones to do? 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ, AND READ and READ, and then proceed To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books! The nursery shelves held books galore! Books cluttered up the nursery floor! And in the bedroom, by the bed, More books were waiting to be read! Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales And treasure isles, and distant shores Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars, And pirates wearing purple pants, And sailing ships and elephants, And cannibals crouching 'round the pot, Stirring away at something hot. (It smells so good, what can it be? Good gracious, it's Penelope.) The younger ones had Beatrix Potter With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter, And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland, And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and- Just How The Camel Got His Hump, And How the Monkey Lost His Rump, And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul, There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole- Oh, books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall. Then fill the shelves with lots of books, Ignoring all the dirty looks, The screams and yells, the bites and kicks, And children hitting you with sticks- Fear not, because we promise you That, in about a week or two Of having nothing else to do, They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something to read. And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did. THE CROCODILE "No animal is half as vile As Crocky–Wock, the crocodile. On Saturdays he likes to crunch Six juicy children for his lunch And he especially enjoys Just three of each, three girls, three boys. He smears the boys (to make them hot) With mustard from the mustard pot. But mustard doesn't go with girls, It tastes all wrong with plaits and curls. With them, what goes extremely well Is butterscotch and caramel. It's such a super marvelous treat When boys are hot and girls are sweet. At least that's Crocky's point of view He ought to know. He's had a few. That's all for now. It's time for bed. Lie down and rest your sleepy head. Ssh. Listen. What is that I hear, Galumphing softly up the stair? Go lock the door and fetch my gun! Go on child, hurry! Quickly run! No stop! Stand back! He's coming in! Oh, look, that greasy greenish skin! The shining teeth, the greedy smile! It's Crocky–Wock, the Crocodile!"

Well, that’s all! Bye!