John Clare

(13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864 / Northamptonshire / England)

Comments about John Clare

  • Alex D Alex D (7/15/2015 3:45:00 AM)

    Hello. I am Alex D. I have come before the members of Poem Hunter today to confess my love for Sharpies. My favourite colour of Sharpie is the brown Sharpie, due to the fact that after I stick it up my ass, I do not have to clean it afterwards. I am mostly known worldwide for my large collection of Sharpies, which I love more than life. Most people also know me for my unhygienic acts, such as not washing my lovely, greasy locks of hair. I also have a large fanbase, due to the fact that when I walk down the school corridors, everyone cheers ALEX D! This makes me very happy as I am obviously very popular :)
    Thank you for taking the time to read my life story, I really appreciate it :)
    Grease out!
    Alex D

    6 person liked.
    20 person did not like.
  • Liakat Ali Ali (2/5/2015 11:09:00 AM)

    the most nonsense poem of a nonsense poet

  • Imogen c (12/12/2007 5:04:00 AM)

    his poems to me are only surpassed by shakespeare. i think that he is one of the very best english poets and the fact that he wasnt some weathly little snob who sat lazzaly scralling out his veiws on the world like alot of the classic english poets were makes him so much more importaint. he actualy experinced a bloody awfull life and it seems that it makes him more credable and more real i mean when he talks about suffering he realy knows what he is talking about he was a awsome guy and yeah

  • Tod Mcgrath (12/5/2005 2:58:00 PM)

    John was a living legend although I thought he herded animals better than he wrote poems but that just my opinion and am a big fan of his labouring background this guy was a living legend but ermm he died...... Ermmm yeh go john! and as im a keen cannibal i would love to have a bite ov him if he was still alive but now hes dead the meat doesnt taste as fresh...... TOD MCGRATH......

  • Louise Birkhead (3/13/2005 2:07:00 PM)


To John Clare

Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The old cock-robin to the sty is come,
With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;
And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,
Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,
Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,
Swept out by little folks an hour ago;
The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes--

[Hata Bildir]