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Home > Author > Ruan Mills Burke
Ruan Mills Burke

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Member Since: May, 2011

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  Ruan Mills Burke

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...And those who were seen dancing, were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. ~Nietzsche

Background Information

Born in the south of England, Ruan Mills Burke is currently residing in France. She writes a variety of poetry pieces, articles and stories, for both adults and children. 

Many of her articles and poems are specific to animal welfare organisations and campaigns. This is a subject close to her heart.
She has also been on both Southern Counties Radio and Radio Caburn UK, to read and discuss her work.

To date, Ruan has been published in a series of anthologies and was placed in the top 100 poets by the Arvon Literary Foundation, UK. She was also included in the New Poets of 2012, USA.

This could go on... but who needs so much boring background stuff...

 Instead, A delicious riposte to...

"Daffoldils" by William Wordsworth (Written 1804)

I wandered lonely as a cloud    
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
 A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,    
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie    
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye    
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.


"Of Wordsworth", from The Daffodils

by William Bealby-Wright


 We wondered - nay, we said out loud 
'Oh happy, happy daffodils!' 
Alas but we had not allowed 
For him who haunts these gloomy hills 
His muffler flapping in the breeze 
Muttering and stumbling through the trees  

Lugubrious as the sheep that pine 
And sulk behind each boulder damp 
He stands disconsolate for a time 
Underneath his dripping gamp 
While all about the raindrops fall 
We wish to god he would not call 

We wish to hell he'd wander on 
We've never been so sorely tried 
A daffodil thus gazed upon 
Might well consider suicide 
He stares and stares, 'How rude!' we sing 
'What blank despair to us you bring' 

For oft, as in this bog we lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood 
He'll loom upon that inward eye 
Which is the curse of solitude 
And then our hearts of pleasure drain 
To see that dreary bard again. 






I have some ...but why brag about them - I just want to be read, not revered.

Additional Information

Much of my work is available in a variety of literary areas, both English and American.

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