Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Bill D Date: 21 Oct 07 - 09:45 AM - with apologies to Azizi..and Longfellow: "I sneezed a sneeze into the air. It fell to earth, I know not where. But hard and cold were the looks of those In whose vicinity I had snoze." |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Amos Date: 21 Oct 07 - 10:31 AM A Prayer for my Daughter William Butler Yeats Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle But Gregory's wood and one bare hill Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind, Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed; And for an hour I have walked and prayed Because of the great gloom that is in my mind. I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, And under the arches of the bridge, and scream In the elms above the flooded stream; Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea. May she be granted beauty and yet not Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught, Or hers before a looking-glass, for such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend. Helen being chosen found life flat and dull And later had much trouble from a fool, While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray, Being fatherless could have her way Yet chose a bandy-leggd smith for man. It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone. In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned; Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned By those that are not entirely beautiful; Yet many, that have played the fool For beauty's very self, has charm made wise, And many a poor man that has roved, Loved and thought himself beloved, From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes. May she become a flourishing hidden tree That all her thoughts may like the linnet be, And have no business but dispensing round Their magnanimities of sound, Nor but in merriment begin a chase, Nor but in merriment a quarrel. O may she live like some green laurel Rooted in one dear perpetual place. My mind, because the minds that I have loved, The sort of beauty that I have approved, Prosper but little, has dried up of late, Yet knows that to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief. If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf. An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind? Considering that, all hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will; She can, though every face should scowl And every windy quarter howl Or every bellows burst, be happy still. And may her bridegroom bring her to a house Where all's accustomed, ceremonious; For arrogance and hatred are the wares Peddled in the thoroughfares. How but in custom and in ceremony Are innocence and beauty born? Ceremony's a name for the rich horn, And custom for the spreading laurel tree. June 1919 I first heard this poem being recited by my brother in the late 1950's; and it has rattled in the back corners of my brain ever since, one piece or another of it popping out to tweak me at odd intervals. A |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Jean(eanjay) Date: 21 Oct 07 - 10:31 AM THE DRAGON WHO ATE OUR SCHOOL The day the dragon came to call, she ate the gate, the playground wall and, slate by slate, the roof and all, the staffroom, gym, and entrance hall, and every classroom, big or small. So . . . She's undeniably great, She's absolutely cool, the dragon who ate the dragon who ate the dragon who ate our school. Pupils panicked. Teachers ran. She flew at them with wide wingspan. She slew a few and then began to chew through the lollipop man, two parked cars and a transit van. Wow . . . ! She bit off the head of the head. She said she was sad he was dead. He bled and he bled and he bled. And as she fed, her chin went red and then she swallowed the cycle shed. Oh . . . It's thanks to her that we've been freed. We needn't write, we needn't read. Me and my mates are all agreed, we're very pleased with her indeed. So clear the way, let her proceed. Cos . . . There was some stuff she couldn't eat. A monster forced to face defeat, she spat it out along the street ~ the dinner ladies' veg and meat and that pink muck they serve for sweet. But . . . Nick Toczek |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rapparee Date: 21 Oct 07 - 11:30 AM Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live." -- Dorothy Parker Phil Ochs, There But for Fortune Lyrics Looking for Phil Ochs tabs and chords? Browse alphabet (above) Artist: Ochs Phil Song: There But for Fortune Album: There But for Fortune Buy Phil Ochs Sheet Music Buy Phil Ochs CDs Show me a prison, show me a jail Show me a pris'ner whose face has grown pale And I'll show you a young man With many reasons why There but for fortune, go you or I Show me an alley, show me a train Show me a hobo who sleeps out in the rain And I'll show you a young man With many reasons why There but for fortune, go you or I Show me the whiskey stains on the floor Show me a drunk as he stumbles out the door And I'll show you a young man With many reasons why There but for fortune, go you or I Show me a country where the bombs had to fall Show me the ruins of buildings so tall And I'll show you a young land With many reasons why There but for fortune, go you or I You or I -- Phil Ochs, of course |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Azizi Date: 21 Oct 07 - 11:32 AM Bill D, with regards to your comment with apologies to Azizi..and Longfellow, if Longfellow doesn't mind, I'm sure I don't either. :o)) |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Amos Date: 21 Oct 07 - 11:52 AM God has given us a dark wine so potent that, drinking it, we leave the two worlds. God has put into the form of hashish a power to deliver the taster from self-consciousness. God has made sleep so that it erases every thought. God made Majnun love Layla so much that just her dog would cause confusion in him. There are thousands of wines that can take over our minds. Don't think all ecstacies are the same! Jesus was lost in his love for God. His donkey was drunk with barley. Drink from the presence of saints, not from those other jars. Every object, every being, is a jar full of delight. Be a conoisseur, and taste with caution. Any wine will get you high. Judge like a king, and choose the purest, the ones unadulterated with fear, or some urgency about "what's needed." Drink the wine that moves you as a camel moves when it's been untied, and is just ambling about. Mathnawi IV, 2683-96 The Essential Rumi, Coleman Barks |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Amos Date: 21 Oct 07 - 12:05 PM Two others by Rumi which I turn to when I am touched by the sear and loss of death: Gone to the Unseen At last you have departed and gone to the Unseen. What marvelous route did you take from this world? Beating your wings and feathers, you broke free from this cage. Rising up to the sky you attained the world of the soul. You were a prized falcon trapped by an Old Woman. Then you heard the drummer's call and flew beyond space and time. As a lovesick nightingale, you flew among the owls. Then came the scent of the rosegarden and you flew off to meet the Rose. The wine of this fleeting world caused your head to ache. Finally you joined the tavern of Eternity. Like an arrow, you sped from the bow and went straight for the bull's eye of bliss. This phantom world gave you false signs But you turned from the illusion and journeyed to the land of truth. You are now the Sun - what need have you for a crown? You have vanished from this world - what need have you to tie your robe? I've heard that you can barely see your soul. But why look at all? - yours is now the Soul of Souls! O heart, what a wonderful bird you are. Seeking divine heights, Flapping your wings, you smashed the pointed spears of your enemy. The flowers flee from Autumn, but not you - You are the fearless rose that grows amidst the freezing wind. Pouring down like the rain of heaven you fell upon the rooftop of this world. Then you ran in every direction and escaped through the drain spout . . . Now the words are over and the pain they bring is gone. Now you have gone to rest in the arms of the Beloved. "Rumi - In the Arms of the Beloved", Jonathan Star New York 1997 ? How did you get away? You were the pet falcon of an old woman. Did you hear the falcon-drum? You were a drunken songbird put in with owls. Did you smell the odor of a garden? You got tired of sour fermenting and left the tavern. You went like an arrow to the target from the bow of time and place. The man who stays at the cemetery pointed the way, but you didn't go. You became light and gave up wanting to be famous. You don't worry about what you're going to eat, so why buy an engraved belt? I've heard of living at the center, but what about leaving the center of the center? Flying toward thankfulness, you become the rare bird with one wing made of fear, and one of hope. In autumn, a rose crawling along the ground in the cold wind. Rain on the roof runs down and out by the spout as fast as it can. Talking is pain. Lie down and rest, now that you've found a friend to be with. "These Branching Moments", Coleman Barks Copper Beech Press, 1988 |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Cats Date: 21 Oct 07 - 12:34 PM This just about sums life up... Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple By Jenny Joseph When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells and run my stick along the public railings and make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain and pick the flowers in other people's gardens and learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat and eat three pounds of sausages at a go or only bread and pickles for a week and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry and pay our rent and not swear in the street and set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. ************* Guess what ~ I've just bought myself a purple outfit! |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Amos Date: 21 Oct 07 - 05:59 PM Cats: Thanks so much for reminding me of one of my favorite poems. My wife swears by it. A |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Emma B Date: 21 Oct 07 - 09:02 PM I first heard this poem with its blend of pathos and humour sung to a haunting air by a young Sean Cannon many years ago and it lodged itself in my memory ever since. The poet is described as spending some time reading for the priesthood before "settling for the career of rake-poet" THE YELLOW BITTERN By Seamus Heaney (Translated from An Bonnán Buí in the Irish of Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Gunna 1680-1756) Yellow bittern, there you are now, Skin and bone on the frozen shore. It wasn't hunger but thirst for a mouthful That left you foundered and me heartsore. What odds is it now about Troy's destruction With you on the flagstones upside down, Who never injured or hurt a creature And preferred bog water to any wine? Bittern, bittern, your end was awful, Your perished skull there on the road, You that would call me every morning With your gargler's song as you guzzled mud. And that's what's ahead of your brother Cathal (You know what they say about me and the stuff) But they've got it wrong and the truth is simple: A drop would have saved that croaker's life. I am saddened, bittern, and broken hearted To find you in scrags in the rushy tufts, And the big rats scampering down the rat paths To wake your carcass and have their fun. If you could have got word to me in time, bird, That you were in trouble and craved a sup, I'd have struck the fetters of those lough waters And wet your thrapple with the blow I struck. Your common birds do not concern me, The blackbird, say, or the thrush or crane, But the yellow bittern, my heartsome namesake With my looks and locks, he's the one I mourn. Constantly he was drinking, drinking, And by all accounts I've a name for it too, But every drop I get I'll sink it For fear I might get my end from drouth. The woman I love says to give it up now Or else I'll go to an early grave, But I say no and keep resisting For taking drink's what prolongs your days. You saw for yourself a while ago What happened to the bird when its throat went dry; So my friends and neighbours, let it flow: You'll be stood no rounds in eternity. original Irish poem here |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rapparee Date: 21 Oct 07 - 09:15 PM I read this when things get tough. If you don't know about Freckles Brown and his ride, well, here: In 1967, at the National Finals in Oklahoma City, Freckles wasn't in the running for the Championship, but perhaps he is remembered better than the bull rider that did win the Championship that year, because that year Freckles rode the "unridable" bull called Tornado. Tornado, owned by Jim Shoulders, was the first bull Freckles drew on the opening night of the Finals, Dec 1, 1967. A full house of 9000 spectators were in the Oklahoma City's State Fair Arena, to see the match-up between 47-year-old Freckles and Tornado. Tornado, in his rodeo career, had scared his share of bull riders off, some preferring to turn him out rather than try to ride him. Freckles took it as a compliment when Ken Roberts said: "Tornado's scared a lot of guys off, but he's going to have to buck Freckles off." Freckles said, "Tornado scared a lot of people off of him. I was real tickled when I drew him. I was wantin' him. I'd watched that bull for years. Everytime anybody jumped out of there, any time anybody drew Tornado, I was up there watching, looking over the chute. When a bull bucks that good, everything has to go right, you gotta get tapped off right." Tornado went high and far on his first jump out, something he was known to do. He spun three or four times. He changed his pattern on Freckles, jumping straight ahead and then back to the right, but nothing he did could throw the determined man. Freckles never heard the whistle. The crowd went wild and the bullfighters moved in, that's how he knew he had him rode! Freckles described it as: "I just felt real good. I got where I wanted to be, and that's the first time I got just exactly where I wanted to be. Sometimes you don't feel that way. But sometimes you feel like you can ride them no matter what they do, but not very often. It was just before the whistle when I felt like I had him rode." The first person to congratulate Freckles was Jim Shoulders, the owner of Tornado. Tornado had gone unridden for 220 professional rides. He died in 1972 and is buried near the Cowboy Hall of Fame. Freckles Advice Baxter Black Though Freckles is an angel now, he ain't forgot his friends. He drops to earth and hangs around behind the buckin' pens. He pulls a rope or just makes sure a rider gets bucked free. So I took it as an honor, the day he spoke to me... "I saw you ride your bull today. You sure did yourself proud. You had him by the short hairs, I could feel it in the crowd!" "I really should be thankful that I even stayed aboard. You could'a done it better, Freckles...I'm lucky that I scored!" "Hey don't be puttin' yourself down! You know you did okay. The time will come when you look back and hunger for today When everything was workin' right and judges liked your style, Your joints were smooth, your belly flat and girls liked your smile. "Cause in between the best you rode and the last one that you'll try You'll face your own mortality and look it in the eye. There ain't no shame admittin' you ain't what you used to be, The shame is blamin' Lady Luck when Father Time's the key! "So if they know you came to ride and always did your best Then hang your ol' spurs up with pride, 'cause that's the acid test And, say some gunsel offers you a 'Geritol on Ice,' Just grin 'im down, 'cause you don't have to ride Tornado twice!" |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: robomatic Date: 21 Oct 07 - 11:13 PM Straight from the grey cells: In Time Like Glass by Walter James Turner In time like glass the stars are kept And seeming fluttering butterflies Are fixed fast in time's glass net With mountains and with maids' bright eyes Above the cold Cordilleras hung The winged eagle, and the moon The gold snow-throated orchid sprung From gloom where peers the dark baboon The Himalayas white wrapped brows The jewel eyed bear that threads their caves The lush plains lowing herds of cows That shadow entering human graves All these like stars in time are kept They vanish but can never pass The sun that with them fades is yet Fast fixed as they in time like glass. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: s&r Date: 22 Oct 07 - 03:22 AM I can still hear if I close my eyes the poem below read in a rich deep strong Yorkshire accent by Mr Braillsford, the best teacher I ever had. For me it only works in Yorkshire. Edward Thomas Adelstrop Yes. I remember Adlestrop — The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June. The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop — only the name And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky. And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and around him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. Stu |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Jean(eanjay) Date: 22 Oct 07 - 08:51 AM To Iron-Founders and Others When you destroy a blade of grass You poison England at her roots: Remember no man's foot can pass Where evermore no green life shoots. You force the birds to wing too high Where your unnatural vapours creep: Surely the living rocks shall die When birds no rightful distance keep. You have brought down the firmament And yet no heaven is more near; You shape huge deeds without event, And half-made men believe and fear. Your worship is your furnaces, Which, like old idols, lost obscenes, Have molten bowels; your vision is Machines for making more machines. O, you are busied in the night, Preparing destinies of rust; Iron misused must turn to blight And dwindle to a tetter'd crust. The grass, forerunner of life, has gone, But plants that spring in ruins and shards Attend until your dream is done: I have seen hemlock in your yards. The generations of the worm Know not your loads piled on their soil; Their knotted ganglions shall wax firm Till your strong flagstones heave and toil. When the old hollow'd earth is crack'd, And when, to grasp more power and feasts, Its ores are emptied, wasted, lack'd, The middens of your burning beasts Shall be raked over till they yield Last priceless slags for fashioning high, Ploughs to wake grass in every field, Chisels men's hands to magnify. Gordon Bottomley |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rapparee Date: 22 Oct 07 - 09:14 AM The golf links lie so near the mill That almost every day The laboring children can look out And see the men at play. — Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: John MacKenzie Date: 22 Oct 07 - 09:14 AM Song of the Shirt - a poem by Thomas Hood With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt." "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work work work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's Oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work work work Till the brain begins to swim; Work work work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch stitch stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear its terrible shape, It seems so like my own It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! "Work work work! My Labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread and rags. That shatter'd roof and this naked floor A table a broken chair And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Work work work! From weary chime to chime, Work work work! As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. "Work work work, In the dull December light, And work work work, When the weather is warm and bright While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the Rich! She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" That for pathos, and this by Margaret Hamilton. Lament for a Lost Dinner Ticket See ma mammy See ma dinner ticket A pititnma Pokit an she pititny Washnmachine. See hon burnty Up wherra firewiz Ma mammy says Am no tellnyagain No'y playnit. A jist wen'y eatma Pokacrisps furma dinner Nabigwoffldoon. The wummin sed Aver near Clapsd Jistur heednur Wee wellies sticknoot Tsed Wot heppind? Nme'nma belly Na bedna hospital. A sed A pititnma Pokit an she pititny Washnmachine. They sed Ees thees chaild eb slootly Non verbal? A sed MA BUMSAIR Nwen'y sleep. for joy. Giok |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Bryn Pugh Date: 22 Oct 07 - 09:41 AM For my beloved, the love of my life (and anyone else who ever loved) I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, tillwe loved ? Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly, Or snorted in the seven sleepers' den. 'Tis true - but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see Which I desired, and got 'Twas but a dream of thee. And now, good morrow to our waking souls Which watch not one another out of fear For love, all love of other things controls And makes this little room an everwhere. Let sea explorers to new wordls have gone. Let maps to others, other worlds have shown. Let us have one world ; Each hath, and is, one. Thy face in my eyes, thin in mine appears And true plain hearts do in these orbs rest. Where could we find two better hemispheres Without sharp North, without declining West? Whatever dyes was not mixed equally. If out two loves be one Then none can sicken, none can die. 'The Good Morrow', John Donne. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: kendall Date: 22 Oct 07 - 10:27 AM Speaking of Longfellow...Song of Hiawatha.. ...at length the wary Roebuck started, lept, as if to meet the arrow. Dead he lay there in the forest, Beat his timid heart no longer... He was a native of Portland Maine, and was not considered a great poet, yet he is honored with a place of honor in Westminster Abbey London. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Mickey191 Date: 22 Oct 07 - 10:46 AM The Mouse On The Barroom Floor Some Guiness was spilt on the barroom floor When the pub was shut for the night. Out of his hole crept a wee brown mouse and stood in the pale moonlight. He lapped up the frothy brew from the floor, Then back on his haunches he sat, And all night long you could hear him roar "Bring on the God Damn cat!" Don't recall where I got this or who penned it- memorized it when I was 12ish. I was not allowed to say the curse-- that spoiled all the fun. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Emma B Date: 22 Oct 07 - 11:01 AM The wonderful thing about this thread is that it has made me remember all those poems that live in the back of the mind, never totally forgotten. Two of the ones that "speak" to me have already been quoted ; "The Tale of the Shirt" and "Adelstrop" Re reading the latter put me in mind of the distilled (pre Beeching) nostalgia of the Flanders and Swann song - "SLOW TRAIN" Miller's Dale for Tideswell ... Kirby Muxloe ... Mow Cop and Scholar Green ... No more will I go to Blandford Forum and Mortehoe On the slow train from Midsomer Norton and Mumby Road. No churns, no porter, no cat on a seat At Chorlton-cum-Hardy or Chester-le-Street. We won't be meeting again On the Slow Train. I'll travel no more from Littleton Badsey to Openshaw. At Long Stanton I'll stand well clear of the doors no more. No whitewashed pebbles, no Up and no Down From Formby Four Crosses to Dunstable Town. I won't be going again On the Slow Train. On the Main Line and the Goods Siding The grass grows high At Dog Dyke, Tumby Woodside And Trouble House Halt. The Sleepers sleep at Audlem and Ambergate. No passenger waits on Chittening platform or Cheslyn Hay. No one departs, no one arrives From Selby to Goole, from St Erth to St Ives. They've all passed out of our lives On the Slow Train, on the Slow Train. Cockermouth for Buttermere ... on the Slow Train, Armley Moor Arram ... Pye Hill and Somercotes ... on the Slow Train, Windmill End. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Cats Date: 22 Oct 07 - 11:02 AM So, if we want to raise some money for mudcat, has anyone the time to put all these together in a book? |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Bill D Date: 22 Oct 07 - 11:06 AM The Modern Hiawatha He killed the noble Mudjokivis. Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the skin side outside. He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside. He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That's why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside, Why he turned them inside outside. -- George A. Strong |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rapparee Date: 22 Oct 07 - 11:35 AM Cargoes John Masefield Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amythysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Peace Date: 22 Oct 07 - 11:53 AM Generally, war poetry brings tears to my eyes. This one is no exception. Shiloh - A Requiem (April 1862) Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly low Over the field in clouded days, The forest-field of Shiloh - Over the field where April rain Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain Through the pause of night That followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh - The church so lone, the log-built one, That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foemen mingled there - Foemen at morn, but friends at eve Fame or country least their care: (What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low, While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh. Herman Melville |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Bill D Date: 22 Oct 07 - 12:03 PM yes, Peace...I memorized this for my 8th grade English class HOHENLINDEN by: Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) On Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery. And redder yet those fires shall glow On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow, And darker yet shall be the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Ah! few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Bill D Date: 22 Oct 07 - 12:07 PM and from Kipling: (made into a very moving song by peter Bellamy) Soldier, Soldier By Rudyard Kipling Born 1865 "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Why don't you march with my true love?" "We're fresh from off the ship an' 'e's maybe give the slip, An' you'd best go look for a new love." New love! True love! Best go look for a new love, The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, An' you'd best go look for a new love. "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, What did you see o' my true love?" "I seed 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-green, An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Did ye see no more o' my true love?" "I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly -- But you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Did aught take 'arm to my true love?" "I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white -- An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, I'll up an' tend to my true love!" "'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead, An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, I'll down an' die with my true love!" "The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im -- An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Do you bring no sign from my true love?" "I bring a lock of 'air that 'e allus used to wear, An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!" "An' I tell you truth again -- when you've lost the feel o' pain You'd best take me for your true love." True love! New love! Best take 'im for a new love, The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, An' you'd best take 'im for your true love. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Emma B Date: 22 Oct 07 - 12:16 PM I heard Brian Turner being interviwed on radio recently about his book of poems from the Iraq war, he read out this one - Here, Bullet If a body is what you want, then here is bone and gristle and flesh. Here is the clavicle-snapped wish, the aorta's opened valves, the leap thought makes at the synaptic gap. Here is the adrenaline rush you crave, that inexorable flight, that insane puncture into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish what you've started. Because here, Bullet, here is where I complete the word you bring hissing through the air, here is where I moan the barrel's cold esophagus, triggering my tongue's explosives for the rifling I have inside of me, each twist of the round spun deeper, because here, Bullet, here is where the world ends, every time. "While in Iraq, I felt very isolated from the relevance of what felt like a prior life. All that existed was the here and now. That said, the novels of Tim O'Brien probably held the most resonance for me. The series of malaria-induced dream poems in Here, Bullet are certainly influenced by Going After Cacciato. Yusef Komunnyakaa's Dien Cai Dau was definitely in the back of my mind. Also, Whitman's care for the wounded may find its echoes in my own work. An anthology of Iraqi poetry (Iraqi Poetry Today) was very influential. Fadhil al-Azzawi, Abd al-Wahhab al-Bayyati, and Muzaffar al-Nawwab had particular impact. As a writer, I have a tendency to be overly musical and layered. I deliberately forced myself to write Here, Bullet in a more stripped-down, direct style—a choice I hoped would be honest to the events I was witnessing." |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Mickey191 Date: 22 Oct 07 - 12:42 PM GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER. " By Amelia Blanford Edwards Give me three grains of corn, Mother, Only three grains of corn; It will keep the little life I have Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, Mother, Dying of hunger and cold; And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told. It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, Mother, A wolf that is fierce for blood; All the livelong day, and the night beside, Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, Mother, And the sight was heaven to see; I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, But you had no bread for me. How could I look to you, Mother, How could I look to you For bread to give to your starving boy, When you were starving too? For I read the famine in your cheek, And in your eyes so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand, As you laid it on your child. The Queen has lands and gold, Mother, The Queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold- A babe that is dying of want, Mother, As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, And famine upon its brow. There is many a brave heart here, Mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the Channel, Mother, Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, Mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs tonight Would give life to me and you. What has poor Ireland done, Mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing one by one? Do the men of England care not, Mother, The great men and the high, For the suffering sons of Erin's Isle, Whether they live or die? Come nearer to my side, Mother, Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, Mother, My breath is almost gone; Mother! Dear Mother! Ere I die, Give me three grains of corn. As many times as I've read this-I still tear up. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: beardedbruce Date: 22 Oct 07 - 01:06 PM Abou ben Adham has already been mentioned, but this by the same author is worth reading. Jenny Kissed Me - Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; Say that health and wealth have miss'd me; Say I'm growing old, but add- Jenny kiss'd me. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Peace Date: 22 Oct 07 - 01:55 PM beardedbruce, Would you please select a few of your own for inclusion? |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: kendall Date: 22 Oct 07 - 02:03 PM Yellow Dog You keep your lofty abstract god, Myself, I choose a child of Pan, An ordinary yellow dog Who does for love what mortals can, Who stretches out her mortal frame Determinedly, although she's lame For one more walk beside her man. Whose ashes grace the forest way We roamed together yesterday. And, to the wilder god I pray: Give her soul some woods to run, A stick to fetch, a patch of sun. And near her, Pan, preserve a place For me, come from a lesser race. Bill Levenworth |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: beardedbruce Date: 22 Oct 07 - 02:15 PM Peace, Those poems are ones where I speak, not ones that speak to me. "A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits. " LL (RAH) Having stated this, I will not object should any here feel that my woprds have spoken to them, they may feel free to post them. I think some may be found on past threads. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Peace Date: 22 Oct 07 - 02:17 PM The poem spoke to you before you wrote it, no? |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: beardedbruce Date: 22 Oct 07 - 02:19 PM The muse speaks; I transcribe. But it would be more appropriate for others to post them, if they feel the poems worthwhile. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Peace Date: 22 Oct 07 - 02:39 PM From Mudcat: "In Every Thread Someone Has to Be Last" Sonnet 04/01/05 CMLXVIII In every thread someone has to be last, Though we may trade places in patterned dance. Each one may lead, then follow: Thoughts are cast On screen to with all others take their chance. Come join the waltz of thousand partners: Share Some moments with a varied crowd, or learn Of osprey nest, or Bob. Each of us care Enough that we to this mad dance return. Each of us add to tune, and join in chords That sweep across our posts: We fill the time With what investment each of us affords. It is just journey that gives cause to climb. As we give, so shall each some gift receive, And only for those gone shall we yet grieve. by Beardedbruce. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: HouseCat Date: 22 Oct 07 - 03:04 PM Desert Places Snow falling and night falling fast, oh fast, In a field I looked into going past, And the ground almost covered smooth in snow, But a few weeds and stubble showing last. The woods around it have it, it is theirs; All animals are smothered in their lairs. I am too absent-spirited to count; The loneliness includes me unawares. And lonely as it is, that loneliness Will be more lonely ere it will be less; A blanker whiteness of benighted snow With no expression, nothing to express. They cannot scare me with their desert places, Between stars - on stars, where no human race is; I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places. Robert Frost |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: McGrath of Harlow Date: 22 Oct 07 - 06:05 PM Here's one I hunted down today, having come across the first verse a few times and been intrigued. Having read the whole poem I am still intrigued - Unwelcome WE were young, we were merry, we were very very wise, And the door stood open at our feast, When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes, And a man with his back to the East. O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast, The loudest voice was still. The jest died away on our lips as thy passed, And the rays of July struck chill. The cups of red wine turned pale on the board, The white bread black as soot. The hound forgot the hand of her lord, She fell down at his foot. Low let me lie, where the dead dog lies, Ere I sit me down again at a feast, When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes, And a man with his back to the East. Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861 – 1907) (I've got a feeling James Thurber once used this in a cartoon, but that may be unfounded.) |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rowan Date: 22 Oct 07 - 06:25 PM The first poem I recall hearing at primary school was by Adam Lindsay Gordon; In this life of froth and bubble two things stand like stone; kindness in another's trouble, courage in your own. Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Emma B Date: 22 Oct 07 - 07:12 PM rowan, that says so very little and so very much too Thanks |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Azizi Date: 22 Oct 07 - 07:20 PM THE CREATION [James Weldon Johnson (1871–1938)] AND God stepped out on space, And He looked around and said, "I'm lonely— I'll make me a world." And far as the eye of God could see Darkness covered everything, Blacker than a hundred midnights Down in a cypress swamp. Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said, "That's good!" Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, And God rolled the light around in His hands Until He made the sun; And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. And the light that was left from making the sun God gathered it up in a shining ball And flung it against the darkness, Spangling the night with the moon and stars. Then down between The darkness and the light He hurled the world; And God said, "That's good!" Then God himself stepped down— And the sun was on His right hand, And the moon was on His left; The stars were clustered about His head, And the earth was under His feet. And God walked, and where He trod His footsteps hollowed the valleys out And bulged the mountains up. Then He stopped and looked and saw That the earth was hot and barren. So God stepped over to the edge of the world And He spat out the seven seas; He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; And the waters above the earth came down, The cooling waters came down. Then the green grass sprouted, And the little red flowers blossomed, The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, And the oak spread out his arms, The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, And the rivers ran down to the sea; And God smiled again, And the rainbow appeared, And curled itself around His shoulder. Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand Over the sea and over the land, And He said, "Bring forth! Bring forth!" And quicker than God could drop His hand. Fishes and fowls And beasts and birds Swam the rivers and the seas, Roamed the forests and the woods, And split the air with their wings. And God said, "That's good!" Then God walked around, And God looked around On all that He had made. He looked at His sun, And He looked at His moon, And He looked at His little stars; He looked on His world With all its living things, And God said, "I'm lonely still." Then God sat down On the side of a hill where He could think; By a deep, wide river He sat down; With His head in His hands, God thought and thought, Till He thought, "I'll make me a man!" Up from the bed of the river God scooped the clay; And by the bank of the river He kneeled Him down; And there the great God Almighty Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; This Great God, Like a mammy bending over her baby, Kneeled down in the dust Toiling over a lump of clay Till He shaped it in His own image; Then into it He blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: topical tom Date: 22 Oct 07 - 07:27 PM As a young lad in school and as a much older person now ,Antoine de St. Exupury's poem has touched me like few others:Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds- and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of- wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace, where never lark, or even eagle flew. And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod the high untresspassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Peace Date: 22 Oct 07 - 07:30 PM That poem is by Tom Magee. It's called "Flight". |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Peace Date: 22 Oct 07 - 07:35 PM Sorry. Was doing two things. Didn't mean to be so terse. My apologies, Tom. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Azizi Date: 22 Oct 07 - 08:53 PM SIGNIFYIN' MONKEY {Oscar Brown, Jr.} Said the signifyin' monkey to the lion one day: "Hey, dere's a great big elephant down th' way Goin' 'roun' talkin', I'm sorry t'say, About yo' momma in a scandalous way!" "Yea, he's talkin' 'bout you' momma an' yo' grandma, too; And he don' show too much respect fo' you. Now, you weren't there an' I sho' am glad 'Cause what he said about yo' mamma made me mad!" Signifyin' monkey, stay up in a yo' tree You are always lyin' and signifyin' But you better not monkey wit' me. The lion said, "Yea? Well, I'll fix him; I'll tear that elephant limb by limb." Then he shook the jungle with a mighty roar Took off like a shot from a forty-four. He found the elephant where the tall grass grows And said, "I come to punch you in your long nose." The elephant looked at the lion in surprise And said, "Boy, you better go pick on somebody your size." But the lion wouldn't listen; he made a pass; The elephant slapped him down in the grass. The lion roared and sprung from the ground. And that's when that elephant really went to town. I mean he whupped that lion for the rest of the day And I still don't see how the lion got away But he dragged on off, more dead than alive, And that's when that monkey started his signifyin' jive. The monkey looked down and said, "Oooh wee! What is this beat-up mess I see? Is that you, Lion? Ha, ha! Do tell! Man, he whupped yo' head to a fare-thee-well! "Give you a beatin' that was rough enough; Yu s'pposed to be king of the jungle, ain't dat some stuff? You big overgrown pussycat! Don't choo roar Or I'll hop down there an' whip you some more." The monkey got to laughing and a' jumpin' up an' down, But his foot missed the limb and he plunged to the ground. The lion was on him with all four feet Gonna grind that monkey to hamburger meat. The monkey looked up with tears in his eyes And said, "Please, Mr. Lion, I apologize, I meant no harm, please let me go And I'll tell you something you really need to know." The lion stepped back to hear what he'd say, And that monkey scampered up the tree and got away. "What I wanted to tell you," the monkey hollered then, "Is if you fool with me, I"ll sic the elephant on you again!" The lion just shook his head, and said, "You jive.... If you and yo' monkey children wanna stay alive, Up in them tress is where you better stay" And that's where they are to this very day. Signifyin' monkey, stay up in yo' tree You always lyin' and signifyin' But you better not monkey wit' me. -snip- {Source: Linda Goss and Marian E. Barnes, editors, Talk That Talk, An Anthology of African-American Storytelling {New York; Simon & Shuster; 1989; pp 456-457} |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Azizi Date: 22 Oct 07 - 09:00 PM I posted that entire "Signifyin' Monkey" poem/song instead of posting a hyperlink because I couldn't find the Oscar Brown Jr. version online. Here's another version of that classic African American poem: http://www.cwrl.utexas.edu/~boade/spring04/signifying.html |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rapparee Date: 22 Oct 07 - 10:17 PM Sort of a poem.... JUST WORDS Baxter Black They were just words: "Tear down the Berlin Wall" Reagan to Gorbachev at the Brandenburg Gate, 1987. "Chance of rain. " Weatherman in Iowa during the '93 flood. "Give me liberty or give me death. " Patrick Henry, 1775. "I wish I'd never read this book. . . so I could read it again for the first time." Dan Trimble about Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, 1992. "The Grass Is Always Greener over the Septic Tank." Erma Bombeck, 1976. We often underestimate the value of words. "Good job, son." "Best cobbler I ever ate." "Did you paint that yourself?" "I'm really proud of you." "Thankya, love." We underestimate their power. "You shouldn't'a let that kid beat ya." "Maybe you should lose some weight, Bon." "You should'a tried harder." "Not again; they've heard those stories before." "You do that every time!" There are people whose opinions we truly value. There are people whose praise we'd die for. They are often two different things. Sometimes we genuinely would like to improve ourselves. "Yer lettin' your rope go too soon." "Give him his head." "Always check the hind feet when you set him up." Sometimes we just need encouragement "You did the best you could. " "You looked like you won from where I sat." "It sure runs better after you worked on it." Most everyone is the most important person in someone's life. It is no small responsibility. It should be a crime if we don't realize and recognize that importance, because what you say can have such long-lasting effect: "I believe you got the makin's of a world champion." Ty Murray's mom. "I know you can do it, but be careful." James A. Lovell, Jr.'s wife. "Believe in yourself." Martin Luther King's Sunday School teacher. "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country. " JFK. "Write about what you know." My college English professor after giving me an F on a poem I wrote for a class assignment. "You'll never amount to anything." Too many of us, too many times. Words. . . like burrs under a blanket, like nails in a coffin. Like a single match in a sea of gasoline. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: topical tom Date: 22 Oct 07 - 10:20 PM No apologies necessary, Peace. Thanks for the correction.I know what I like in poetry but I obviously need to do more research! |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Peace Date: 22 Oct 07 - 11:00 PM Thanks, Tom. Anyone who likes "The Little Prince" is OK with me. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Marion Date: 23 Oct 07 - 12:27 AM The Lesson of the Moth by Don Marquis i was talking to a moth the other evening he was trying to break into an electric light bulb and fry himself on the wires why do you fellows pull this stunt i asked him because it is the conventional thing for moths or why if that had been an uncovered candle instead of an electric light bulb you would now be a small unsightly cinder have you no sense plenty of it he answered but at times we get tired of using it we get bored with the routine and crave beauty and excitement fire is beautiful and we know that if we get too close it will kill us but what does that matter it is better to be happy for a moment and be burned up with beauty than to live a long time and be bored all the while so we wad all our life up into one little roll and then we shoot the roll that is what life is for it is better to be a part of beauty for one instant and then cease to exist than to exist forever and never be a part of beauty our attitude toward life is come easy go easy we are like human beings used to be before they became too civilized to enjoy themselves and before i could argue him out of his philosophy he went and immolated himself on a patent cigar lighter i do not agree with him myself i would rather have half the happiness and twice the longevity but at the same time i wish there was something i wanted as badly as he wanted to fry himself |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Marion Date: 23 Oct 07 - 12:30 AM Dirge Without Music by Edna St. Vincent Millay I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains,--but the best is lost. The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love, -- They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave, Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. |