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Tariki wrote: theia,

Like yourself, I have never read all of the writings of St John of the Cross. To be honest, a lot of what I HAVE read goes way above my own "spiritual" head!!(It needs to be kept simple for me to understand and assimilate)

However, I am encouraged by his words........."If you wish to be sure of the road you tread on you must close your eyes and walk in the dark"

Best wishes




Thank you Tariki. That would be a very beautiful quote for the "quotes" thread on FG. :-6

Here is one of my favorites from throughout the years. I have it burned onto a wooden placque.

Points to Ponder

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.

And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and company doesn't mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises.

And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open, with the grace of an adult, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure... that you really are strong.

And you really do have worth.

Author Unknown

My favorites are "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Coleridge and "The Wasteland" by Elliot. They are too long to post here though. But if you don't already know them, check them out, they are the real deal.

I didn't get a chance to say I love you.

You were gone before we got that far.

All I know is now I really need you,

Yet when I look for you, you aren't there.

You said once that you never would forget me,

Yet how am I to know without you here?

Such emptiness! Like what I feel within me:

Neither flesh nor tears, just cold thin air.

Sometimes, alone, I feel your arms around me,

And all my need for you spills out in pain.

Jagged memories of you surround me.

I cannot think I won't see you again.



:-2 :-3 :-4 i like this poem!!

well dis is my fav poem

its so inspirational

Tinkle, tinkle, little bat,

Wonder where the potty’s at?

Straight ahead or to the right?

Caves are very dark at night.

Little bat, why do you frown?

Did you tinkle upside down?

i am moved to tears. :rolleyes:

yeah that how dis poem makes me feel too...twins...kindrid spirits

me>>>>:) <<<<Lady cop sista gurl

j'Asoń wrote: yeah that how dis poem makes me feel too...twins...kindrid spirits



me>>>>:) yep...are you a scorpio? :p do an introduction thread so i don't bollocks up the poetry thread. tell us about you!

nah ima piesies lol

j'Asoń wrote: nah ima piesies loluh, does that translate into i am a pisces?

it sure does lol i wasnt lookin at da keyboard

THE NEW ENGLAND BOY'S SONG

ABOUT THANKSGIVING DAY

Lydia Maria Child (1802-1880)

Over the river, and through the wood,

To grandfather's house we go;

The horse knows the way,

To carry the sleigh,

Through the white and drifted snow .

Over the river, and through the wood,

To grandfather's house away !

We would not stop

For doll or top,

For 't is Thanksgiving day .

Over the river, and through the wood,

Oh, how the wind does blow !

It stings the toes,

And bites the nose,

As over the ground we go .

Over the river, and through the wood,

With a clear blue winter sky,

The dogs do bark,

And children hark,

As we go jingling by .

Over the river, and through the wood,

To have a first-rate play”

Hear the bells ring

Ting a ling ding,

Hurrah for Thanksgiving day !

Over the river, and through the wood”

No matter for winds that blow;

Or if we get

The sleigh upset,

Into a bank of snow .

Over the river, and through the wood,

To see little John and Ann;

We will kiss them all,

And play snow-ball

And stay as long as we can .

Over the river, and through the wood,

Trot fast, my dapple gray !

Spring over the ground,

Like a hunting hound,

For 'tis Thanksgiving day !

Over the river, and through the wood,

And straight through the barn-yard gate;

We seem to go

Extremely slow,

It is so hard to wait .

Over the river, and through the wood”

Old Jowler hears our bells;

He shakes his pow,

With a loud bow wow,

And thus the news he tells .

Over the river, and through the wood”

When grandmother sees us come,

She will say, Oh dear,

The children are here,

Bring a pie for every one .

Over the river, and through the wood”

Now grandmother's cap I spy !

Hurrah for the fun !

Is the pudding done ?

Hurrah for the pumpkin pie !

Thanks LC these are some really great poets here.

I've always liked this one.



Alone



By Edgar Allan Poe

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then - in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life - was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

The Village Smithy

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.



His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.



Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.



And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.



He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.



It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.



Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

Two of my favourite poems have already been posted, Kipling's If and Owen's Dulce et decorum est. These I learned at school, and they will always mean something to me. So I suppose I need to pick a different "favourite" poem to post. I have picked the one below, "The Tay Bridge Disaster" by William McGonagall.

I only know of this poem because it was recited by Billy Connolly on his World tour of scotland. And I was enchanted by it. So here it is, the most famous poem by the man they described as "a great writer of bad verse"...

THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER by William Topaz MaGonagall.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!

Alas! I am very sorry to say

That ninety lives have been taken away

On the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

'Twas about seven o'clock at night,

And the wind it blew with all its might,

And the rain came pouring down,

And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,

And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-

"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."

When the train left Edinburgh

The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,

But Boreas blew a terrific gale,

Which made their hearts for to quail,

And many of the passengers with fear did say-

"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,

Boreas he did loud and angry bray,

And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay

On the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,

And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,

And the passengers' hearts felt light,

Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,

With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,

And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,

Until it was about midway,

Then the central girders with a crash gave way,

And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!

The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,

Because ninety lives had been taken away,

On the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known

The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,

And the cry rang out all o'er the town,

Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,

And a passenger train from Edinburgh,

Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,

And made them for to turn pale,

Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale

How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,

To witness in the dusky moonlight,

While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,

Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,

Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,

I must now conclude my lay

By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,

That your central girders would not have given way,

At least many sensible men do say,

Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,

At least many sensible men confesses,

For the stronger we our houses do build,

The less chance we have of being killed.

My very favorite poem is a poem that my son wrote to me for my birthday:

Exhale



When I look in the mirror,

I see a grown man.

Walking through life,

the world in his hand.

So many different choices,

so many opportunities.

If not for you,

who knows what this world would do to me.

You're always around

to help me and guide.

Goodbye to fake friends,

'cause I'll leave them behind.

You're the only one,

that's always been there,

And still standing strong,

always there to care.

All the progress I've made,

was with help from you.

We've been mad before,

but I still love ya' blue.

To get my point across,

you made me who I am.

You should be proud of yourself,

but not as much as I am.

I love you everyday,

You've helped me when I've failed.

And I'll always be your loving son,

until my last exhale.

I love Robert Frost too. I have been told that it can be very thought -povoking when used at funerals.

The Highway Man

by Alfred Noyes


The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding- riding-riding-

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;

And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,

When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,

A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching-

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,

But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!

There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;

They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-

Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!

Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

Trot-trot; trot-trot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;

Trot-trot, trot-trot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding, riding, riding!

The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

Trot-trot, in the frosty silence! Trot-trot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed,

With her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back,he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding- riding-riding-

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,

And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Good Dog Nigel



Arf, Arf, he goes, a merry sight

Our little hairy friend

Arf, Arf, upon the lampost bright

Arfing round the bend.

Nice dog! Goo boy,

Waggie tail and beg,

Clever Nigel, jump for joy

Because we are putting you to sleep at three of the clock, Nigel.

John Lennon - In His Own Write

They **** you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****ed up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

A cheerful little ditty by Phillip Larkin

someone posted mine I vote Robert Frost The Road Not Taken:)

Tan wrote: My favorite favorite poet is Robert Frost. Some of his greatest: Nothing Gold Can Stay, Mending Wall, Acquainted with the Night, and :

The Road not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;



Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,



And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.



I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

lady cop wrote: i would love to read everyone's favorite poems~~please post some! ...here's one of mine~~~~~~~~~~~by W.H. Auden, from "four weddings and a funeral"~~~~~~~







Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.



Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.



He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.



The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.:yh_flower


Hard to say exactly what is my favorite poem. It depends on my mood for the day. but this has to be one of my all time favorites.

The Old Man Dreams

by Oliver Wendell Holmes

OH for one hour of youthful joy!

Give back my twentieth spring!

I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,

Than reign, a gray-beard king.

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!

Away with Learning's crown!

Tear out life's Wisdom-written page,

And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream

From boyhood's fount of flame!

Give me one giddy, reeling dream

Of life all love and fame!

. . . . .

My listening angel heard the prayer,

And, calmly smiling, said,

"If I but touch thy silvered hair

Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track,

To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back

To find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind!

Without thee what were life ?

One bliss I cannot leave behind:

I'll take-- my-- precious-- wife!"

The angel took a sapphire pen

And wrote in rainbow dew,

The man would be a boy again,

And be a husband too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid,

Before the change appears?

Remember, all their gifts have fled

With those dissolving years."

"Why, yes;" for memory would recall

My fond paternal joys;

"I could not bear to leave them all--

I'll take-- my-- girl-- and-- boys."

The smiling angel dropped his pen,--

"Why, this will never do;

The man would be a boy again,

And be a father too!"

. . . . .

And so I laughed,-- my laughter woke

The household with its noise,--

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

spot wrote: Great man, Robert Service. Drove an Ambulance in World War 1. Had to escape from Poland when World War 2 broke out. A Scots englishman. Ronald Reagan's favorite poet. His domestic poems discussing his life in France are amazing.

If you like Auden, lady, you might know this already, but if not it's very good:

W. H. Auden:

"The Two" (or "The Witnesses")

You are the town and we are the clock.

We are the guardians of the gate in the rock.

The Two.

On your left and on your right

In the day and in the night,

We are watching you.

Wiser not to ask just what has occurred

To them who disobeyed our word;

To those

We were the whirlpool, we were the reef,

We were the formal nightmare, grief

And the unlucky rose.

Climb up the crane , learn the sailor's words

When the ships from the islands laden with birds

Come in.

Tell your stories of fishing and other men's wives:

The expansive moments of constricted lives

In the lighted inn.

But do not imagine we do not know

Nor that what you hide with such care won't show

At a glance.

Nothing is done, nothing is said,

But don't make the mistake of believing us dead:

I shouldn't dance.

We're afraid in that case you'll have a fall.

We've been watching you over the garden wall

For hours.

The sky is darkening like a stain,

Something is going to fall like rain

And it won't be flowers.

When the green field comes off like a lid

Revealing what was much better hid:

Unpleasant.

And look, behind you without a sound

The woods have come up and are standing round

In deadly crescent.

The bolt is sliding in its groove,

Outside the window is the black remov-

ers' van.

And now with sudden swift emergence

Come the woman in dark glasses and humpbacked surgeons

And the scissors man.

This might happen any day

So be careful what you say

Or do.

Be clean, be tidy, oil the lock,

Trim the garden, wind the clock,

Remember the Two.




I had never read Auden before. Very very good. Thank you for that. I will look for his works. Overall I love Poe the best of all even though he is dark. In his darkness there is beauty. Dreamland comes to mind. He speaks of how many people would be put off but if you have a tormented soul it is a paradise.



Dreamland

by Edgar Allan Poe

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly

From an ultimate dim Thule-

From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,

Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,

And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,

With forms that no man can discover

For the tears that drip all over;

Mountains toppling evermore

Into seas without a shore;

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging, unto skies of fire;

Lakes that endlessly outspread

Their lone waters- lone and dead,-

Their still waters- still and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread

Their lone waters, lone and dead,-

Their sad waters, sad and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily,-

By the mountains- near the river

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-

By the grey woods,- by the swamp

Where the toad and the newt encamp-

By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,-

By each spot the most unholy-

In each nook most melancholy-

There the traveller meets aghast

Sheeted Memories of the Past-

Shrouded forms that start and sigh

As they pass the wanderer by-

White-robed forms of friends long given,

In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion

'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-

For the spirit that walks in shadow

'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!

But the traveller, travelling through it,

May not- dare not openly view it!

Never its mysteries are exposed

To the weak human eye unclosed;

So wills its King, who hath forbid

The uplifting of the fringed lid;

And thus the sad Soul that here passes

Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have wandered home but newly

From this ultimate dim Thule.

Ode to Beer

I think that I shall never hear

A poem lovelier than a beer

The foamy stuff they have on tap

With the golden base and the lovely snowy cap

Beer's so great - It lets me sublimate

Beer's so great - My need to hate

Though I try I'll always fail

To write as sweet as this here ale

With ethanol at 5.9

I'm too damn drunk to write this line

Oh for the days when Sundays were fun.

We'd jump in the car and go for a run.

We'd stroll across meadows, climb the odd stile

And maybe visit a stately pile.



Or else it was church or Sunday school,

Or swimming with friends in a local pool.

We'd drive to the seaside, stay until dark

And never go near retail park.



Now we've succumbed to the siren of shopping,

Crisscrossing town to each store without stopping.

We've traded the old-fashioned pleasures of yore

For the dubious joys of the superstore.



Children trudge bored round the endless aisles,

Strangers now to their rosy smiles.

Instead of those shell-hunts by the sea,

They're helping Mum to save 10p.



Dad's got a face like a basset hound

He snaps and growls if he makes a sound.

On Sunday outings he used to be jolly;

Now he's a grouch in charge of a trolley.



Oh to see the lambs in the warm summer breeze -

They lose their charm in the cold deep-freeze;

And the pines now made into furnishing goods

Looked so much better in the Autumn woods.



Remember those visits to quaint old towns ?

Picnic hampers on the Downs ?

Lakeland walks and trips to the zoo ?

We dream of them now in a checkout queue.



And when we've amassed the week's supply -

Grocery, gardening, DIY -

We jump in the car and home we ride

To watch a film of the countryside.



Michael Shenton

I know that technically this isn't a poem, but a song. However as with all of Joni Mitchells work, the lyrics stand up on their own as poetry

This is my favourite

Don Juans Reckless Daughter

I’m Don Juan’s reckless daughter

I came out two days on your tail

Those two bald-headed days in November

Before the first snowflakes sail

Out on the vast and subtle plains of mystery

A split tongue spirit talks

Noble as a nickel chief

Striking up an old juke box

And he says:

Snakes along the railroad tracks.

He says, eagles in jet trails ...

He says, coils around feathers and talons on scales ...

Gravel under the belly plates ...

He says, wind in the wings ...

He says, big bird dragging it’s tail in the dust ...

Snake kite flying on a string.

I come from open prairie

Given some wisdom and a lot of jive!

Last night the ghosts of my old ideals

Reran on channel five

And it howled so spooky for it’s eagle soul

I nearly broke down and cried

But the split tongue spirit laughed at me

He says, your serpent cannot be denied.

Our serpents love the whisky bars

They love the romance of the crime

But didn’t I see a neon sign

Fester on your hotel blind

And a country road come off the wall

And swoop down at the crowd at the bar

And put me at the top of your danger list

Just for being so much like you are!

You’re a coward against the altitude--

You’re a coward against the flesh--

Coward--caught between yes and no

Reckless this time on the line for yes, yes, yes!

Reckless brazen in the play

Of your changing traffic lights

Coward--slinking down the hall

To another restless night

As we center behind the eight ball

As we rock between the sheets

As we siphon the colored language

Off the farms and the streets

Here in good-old-god-save-america

The home of the brave and the free

We are all hopelessly oppressed cowards

Of some duality

Of restless multiplicity

(oh say can you see)

Restless for streets and honky tonks

Restless for home and routine

Restless for country-safety-and her

Restless for the likes of reckless me

Restless sweeps like fire and rain

Over virgin wilderness

It prowls like hookers and thieves

Through bolt locked tenements

Behind my bolt locked door

The eagle and the serpent are at war in me

The serpent fighting for blind desire

The eagle for clarity

What strange prizes these battles bring

These hectic joys-these weary blues

Puffed up and strutting when I think I win

Down and shaken when I think I lose

There are rivets up here in this eagle

There are box cars down there on your snake

And we are twins of spirit

No matter which route home we take

Or what we forsake

We’re going to come up to the eyes of clarity

And we’ll go down to the beads of guile

There is danger and education

In living out such a reckless life style

I touched you on the central plains

It was plane to train my twin

It was just plane shadow to train shadow

But to me it was skin to skin

The spirit talks in spectrums

He talks to mother earth to father sky

Self indulgence to self denial

Man to woman

Scales to feathers

You and i

Eagles in the sky

You and i

Snakes in the grass

You and i

Crawl and fly

You and i

Okie wrote: I had never read Auden before. Very very good. Thank you for that. I found it when I was at school (The Witnesses) and loved it at first sight. It was written in the shadow of rising Fascism. I read it at school as an echo of the past. I read it now as a glimpse of the future where it all comes round again.

I never posted Alex Glasgow's song lyric into the poetry thread, about echoes of the past sounding again, but I did post it on FG - it's at http://www.forumgarden.com/forums/showp ... stcount=96 - there's something of the same notion that I'm trying to put across.

spot wrote: I found it when I was at school (The Witnesses) and loved it at first sight. It was written in the shadow of rising Fascism. I read it at school as an echo of the past. I read it now as a glimpse of the future where it all comes round again.

I never posted Alex Glasgow's song lyric into the poetry thread, about echoes of the past sounding again, but I did post it on FG - it's at http://www.forumgarden.com/forums/showp ... stcount=96 - there's something of the same notion that I'm trying to put across.
I liked it a lot. Here is one I like too. I like the way Eliot paints a pciture with words. He might see the same scene as someone else but to him its different.

Sweeney Among the Nightingales

by Thomas Stearns Eliot

Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees

Letting his arms hang down to laugh,

The zebra stripes along his jaw

Swelling to maculate giraffe.

The circles of the stormy moon

Slide westward toward the River Plate,

Death and the Raven drift above

And Sweeney guards the horned gate.

Gloomy Orion and the Dog

Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;

The person in the Spanish cape

Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees

Slips and pulls the table cloth

Overturns a coffee-cup,

Reorganized upon the floor

She yawns and draws a stocking up;

The silent man in mocha brown

Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;

The waiter brings in oranges

Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;

The silent vertebrate in brown

Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;

Rachel née Rabinovitch

Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;

She and the lady in the cape

Are suspect, thought to be in league;

Therefore the man with heavy eyes

Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,

Leaves the room and reappears

Outside the window, leaning in,

Branches of wisteria

Circumscribe a golden grin;

The host with someone indistinct

Converses at the door apart,

The nightingales are singing near

The Convent of the Sacred Heart,

And sang within the bloody wood

When Agamemnon cried aloud,

And let their liquid droppings fall

To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.

Okie wrote: I liked it a lot. Here is one I like too. I like the way Eliot paints a pciture with words. He might see the same scene as someone else but to him its different.Eliot was much possessed by class, I always thought. As there.

I just checked, and nobody ever posted Louis Macniece's "Bagpipe Music" here. It's another of those that I found in my teens and which stuck with me ever since. I don't know another poem that has such a powerful external rhythm - even the title "bagpipe music" is inspired. I suspect he must have been slightly depressed, at least, while writing it. And quite likely angry too.

Louis Macniece

"Bagpipe Music"

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,

All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.

Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,

Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,

Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,

Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,

Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.

It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky,

All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,

Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.

It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,

All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,

Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.

Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,

Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction."

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,

All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,

Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.

His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,

Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,

All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,

It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,

It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,

Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;

Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,

But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.

spot wrote: Eliot was much possessed by class, I always thought. As there.

I just checked, and nobody ever posted Louis Macniece's "Bagpipe Music" here. It's another of those that I found in my teens and which stuck with me ever since. I don't know another poem that has such a powerful external rhythm - even the title "bagpipe music" is inspired. I suspect he must have been slightly depressed, at least, while writing it. And quite likely angry too.

Louis Macniece

"Bagpipe Music"

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,

All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.

Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,

Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,

Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,

Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,

Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.

It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky,

All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,

Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.

It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,

All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,

Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.

Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,

Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction."

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,

All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,

Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.

His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,

Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,

All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,

It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,

It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,

Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;

Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,

But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.


Thats great. Fairly contemporary.

I knew a guy once who was working on the railroad called himself "The Madd Muther" He drew political cartoons on railroad cars. Very bright. He got hurt in a train wreck and I never saw him for years. Last time I saw him he was walking for exercise and of course had a limp from the wreck. Wish he could have went somewhere with his art. He was a poet as well.

Okie wrote: Thats great. Fairly contemporary.It's even older than I am!

Have you ever heard of http://www.banksy.co.uk ?

spot wrote: It's even older than I am!

Have you ever heard of http://www.banksy.co.uk ?


No I had not. I went to your link and had a word in a blot sort of transmorph?

Okie wrote: No I had not. I went to your link and had a word in a blot sort of transmorph?When in doubt, click the pic! There's a whole site under there relating to graffiti and subversion.

spot wrote: When in doubt, click the pic! There's a whole site under there relating to graffiti and subversion.
Ah! Click the pic. Ok. :-5

C. Marlowe . The Passionate Shepherd to His Love COME live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks 5And see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies, 10A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linèd slippers for the cold, 15With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love. 20 Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 25For thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.

spot wrote: Eliot was much possessed by class, I always thought. As there.

I just checked, and nobody ever posted Louis Macniece's "Bagpipe Music" here. It's another of those that I found in my teens and which stuck with me ever since. I don't know another poem that has such a powerful external rhythm - even the title "bagpipe music" is inspired. I suspect he must have been slightly depressed, at least, while writing it. And quite likely angry too.

Louis Macniece

"Bagpipe Music"

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,

All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.

Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,

Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,

Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,

Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,

Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.

It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky,

All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,

Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.

It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,

All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,

Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.

Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,

Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction."

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,

All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,

Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.

His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,

Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,

All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,

It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,

It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,

Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;

Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,

But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.


Oliver Wendell Holmes is one of my favorite poets. Here is one many people know. I like his one about The Old Man Dreams too.

The Voiceless

by Oliver Wendell Holmes

WE count the broken lyres that rest

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,

But o'er their silent sister's breast

The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?

A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy Fame is proud to win them:--

Alas for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,--

Weep for the voiceless, who have known

The cross without the crown of glory!

Not where Leucadian breezes sweep

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,

But where the glistening night-dews weep

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign

Save whitening lip and fading tresses,

Till Death pours out his longed-for wine

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,--

If singing breath or echoing chord

To every hidden pang were given,

What endless melodies were poured,

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

This may be the most dreadful translation ever made, but it was triggered by a PM I received here overnight offering an unmerited hand of friendship after far too many harsh words had been sent on my part. The PM brought to mind a poem by Alfred de Musset, written in 1839, and I've taken a shot at turning that into English as a response. I've kept the meter, and the rhyme, and the sense, but beyond that I've probably made a total hash of it. The original, which is truly lyrical, is tagged on at the end of the post.



You know, whatever's said, the powers we've each brought

Will touch each other's minds, caress or irritate.

Just as in those whom Hermes passed Olympian thought

Joy welled up to irrigate,

So friendship should be sought.

What fools, then, when we descend to pointless fighting

That brings no peace, rehearsing weak old arguments!

Why post ream on ream of copy-pasted writing,

Or aim careful thought-out vents

Of personalized slighting?

Let us instead each accept a need for pardon,

Try to ask it pleasantly

Of minds we tried to harden,

Rather than toe our party lines defiantly.

When this place started, the Forum was a garden.

Let us discuss our journey, our dream and our taste,

Compare at length our future hope with what we've seen,

And let this standard constantly be faced;

The way we've argued here has shown us to be green.

New-schooled infants at play behave with far less waste.

Think of those who'd stay were we more a group

How welcome they would feel without the bickering.

We've all become ingrown, a self-selected troop.

If we could stop snickering

Others might feel in the loop.

Come on! Spreading joy would work well!

It's not as though it isn't obviously so.

Who wants to make this forum hell?

We have the skills and range to make this Garden grow,

Our various talents need a better place to show.

Obey your muse, accept what prompting she inspires

And if you can, ignore what might seem aimed to spite.

Whatever thread you enter needs creative fires,

That's your job. Provide insight

With the tact respect requires.



Sur les débuts de Mesdemoiselles Rachel et Pauline Garcia, by Alfred de Musset.

Ainsi donc, quoi qu'on dise, elle ne tarit pas,

La source immortelle et féconde

Que le coursier divin fit jaillir sous ses pas;

Elle existe toujours, cette sève du monde,

Elle coule, et les dieux sont encore ici-bas!

A quoi nous servent donc tant de luttes frivoles,

Tant d'efforts toujours vains et toujours renaissants?

Un chaos si pompeux d'inutiles paroles,

Et tant marteaux impuissants

Frappant les anciennes idoles?

Discourons sur les arts, faisons les connaisseurs;

Nous aurons beau changer d'erreurs

Comme un libertin de maîtresse,

Les lilas au printemps seront toujours en fleurs,

Et les arts immortels rajeuniront sans cesse.

Discutons nos travers, nos rêves et nos goûts,

Comparons à loisir le moderne et l'antique,

Et ferraillons sous ces drapeaux jaloux!

Quand nous serons au bout de notre rhétorique,

Deux enfants nés d'hier en sauront plus que nous.

Ý jeunes coeurs remplis d'antique poésie,

Soyez les bienvenus, enfants chéris des dieux

Vous avez le même âge et le même génie.

La douce clarté soit bénie

Que vous ramenez dans nos yeux!

Allez! que le bonheur vous suive!

Ce n'est pas du hasard un caprice inconstant

Qui vous fit naître au même instant.

Votre mère ici-bas, c'est la Muse attentive

Qui sur le feu sacré veille éternellement.

Obéissez sans crainte au dieu qui vous inspire.

Ignorez, s'il se peut, que nous parlons de vous.

Ces plaintes, ces accords, ces pleurs, ce doux sourire,

Tous vos trésors, donnez-les-nous

Chantez enfants, laissez-nous dire.

appropos. nice.

Shancoduff



My black hills have never seen the sun rising,

Eternally they look north towards Armagh.

Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been

Incurious as my black hills that are happy

When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.

My hills hoard the bright shillings of March

While the sun searches in every pocket.

They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn

With a sheaf of hay for three perishing calves

In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage.

The sleety winds fondle the rushy beards of Shancoduff

While the cattle-drovers sheltering in the Featherna Bush

Look up and say: "Who owns them hungry hills

That the water-hen and snipe must have forsaken?

A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor."

I hear, and is my heart not badly shaken?

-Patrick Kavanagh

AussiePam wrote: Shancoduff



My black hills have never seen the sun rising,

Eternally they look north towards Armagh.

Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been

Incurious as my black hills that are happy

When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.

My hills hoard the bright shillings of March

While the sun searches in every pocket.

They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn

With a sheaf of hay for three perishing calves

In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage.

The sleety winds fondle the rushy beards of Shancoduff

While the cattle-drovers sheltering in the Featherna Bush

Look up and say: "Who owns them hungry hills

That the water-hen and snipe must have forsaken?

A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor."

I hear, and is my heart not badly shaken?

-Patrick Kavanagh


I love that one. I read it again and again. Here is one more I like.



THE FACE UPON THE FLOOR

by

Hugh Antoine D'Arcy

Dramatic Monologues

'Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there,

Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom, on the corner of the square;

And as songs and witty stories Came through the open door,

A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in."

"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, or rum or gin?"

"Here, Toby, sic 'em, if your stomach's equal to the work--

I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;

In fact, he smiled as tho' he thought he'd struck the proper place.

"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd--

To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink--that's what I want... I'm out of funds, you know,

When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow.

What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;

I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks, that's braced me nicely, God bless you one and all;

Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.

Give you a song? No, I can't do that, my singing days are past;

My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out and my lungs are going fast.

"I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.

Say! Give me another whiskey and I'll tell you what I'll do...

That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;

But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame--

Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;

Five fingers... there, that's the scheme... and corking whiskey, too.

Well, here's luck, boys and landlord... my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you true

How I came to be the dirty sot, you see before you now.

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,

And but for a blunder ought to have made, considerable wealth.

"I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood,

But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good.

I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise,

For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame'.

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name,

And then I met a woman... now comes the funny part--

With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'tis funny that the vagabond you see

Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;

But 'twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,

And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give,

With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;

With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor and a wealth of chestnut hair?

If so, 'twas she, for there never was, another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way.

And Madeline admired it and much to my surprise,

Said she'd like to know the man, that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him and before the month had flown

My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,

The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

That's why I took to drink, boys. why, I never see you smile,

I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while.

Why, what's the matter, friend?... there's a tear-drop in your eye,

Come, laugh like me 'tis only babes and women that should cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey I'll be glad,

And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score

You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor."

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began

To sketch a face that well might buy, the soul of any man.

Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,

With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture... dead!

I havent heard of Robert Service since this forum. Good show friends!

Hi Tan! We could find some more Robert Service if you like, he's great fun.



This is an extract from an alarming poem, when you consider that the author was one-time Dean of Saint Paul's Cathedral: John Donne, "To His Mistress Going to Bed".



Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime

Tells me from you, that now 'tis your bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envy,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.

Off with that wiry coronet and show

The hairy diadem which on you doth grow;

Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread

In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes heaven's angels used to be

Received by men; thou angel bring'st with thee

A heaven like Mahomet's paradise; and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know

By this these angels from an evil sprite,

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

License my roving hands, and let them go

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America, my new found land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,

My mine of precious stones, my empery,

How blessed am I in this discovering thee!

spot wrote: Hi Tan! We could find some more Robert Service if you like, he's great fun.



This is an extract from an alarming poem, when you consider that the author was one-time Dean of Saint Paul's Cathedral: John Donne, "To His Mistress Going to Bed".



Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime

Tells me from you, that now 'tis your bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envy,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.

Off with that wiry coronet and show

The hairy diadem which on you doth grow;

Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread

In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes heaven's angels used to be

Received by men; thou angel bring'st with thee

A heaven like Mahomet's paradise; and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know

By this these angels from an evil sprite,

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

License my roving hands, and let them go

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America, my new found land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,

My mine of precious stones, my empery,

How blessed am I in this discovering thee!


That was very good. This one I relate to more.

The Old Man Dreams

by Oliver Wendell Holmes

OH for one hour of youthful joy!

Give back my twentieth spring!

I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,

Than reign, a gray-beard king.

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!

Away with Learning's crown!

Tear out life's Wisdom-written page,

And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream

From boyhood's fount of flame!

Give me one giddy, reeling dream

Of life all love and fame!

. . . . .

My listening angel heard the prayer,

And, calmly smiling, said,

"If I but touch thy silvered hair

Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track,

To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back

To find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind!

Without thee what were life ?

One bliss I cannot leave behind:

I'll take-- my-- precious-- wife!"

The angel took a sapphire pen

And wrote in rainbow dew,

The man would be a boy again,

And be a husband too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid,

Before the change appears?

Remember, all their gifts have fled

With those dissolving years."

"Why, yes;" for memory would recall

My fond paternal joys;

"I could not bear to leave them all--

I'll take-- my-- girl-- and-- boys."

The smiling angel dropped his pen,--

"Why, this will never do;

The man would be a boy again,

And be a father too!"

. . . . .

And so I laughed,-- my laughter woke

The household with its noise,--

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

"My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb'rest

Since once I sat upon a promontory

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath

That the rude sea grew civil at her song

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres

To hear the sea-maid's music?"

--From Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream

Tam might like this.

Robert Service, Rhymes for Reality: "Marie Antoinette"



They told to Marie Antoinette:

"The beggers at your gate

Have eyes too sad for tears to wet,

And for your pity wait."

But Marie only laughed and said:

"My heart they will not ache:

If people starve for want of bread

Let them eat cake."

The Court re-echoed her bon mot;

It rang around the land,

Till masses wakened from their woe

With scyth and pick in hand.

It took a careless, callous phrase

To rouse the folk forlorn:

A million roared the Marseillaise:

Freedom was born.

And so to Marie Antoinette

Let's pay a tribute due;

Humanity owes her a debt,

(Ironical, it's true).

She sparked world revolution red,

And as with glee they bore

Upon a pike her lovely head -

Her curls dripped gore.