The Poetry Thread

[stormerne]

No compendium of poetry would be complete without the most famous missive from the great tragedian William Topaz McGonagall, the centenary of whose demise we celebrate this year.

The Tay Bridge Disaster

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 black clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of the 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 the Tay."

But when the train came 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 it's 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 take 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 oe'r the town,
Good Heavens ! The Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the people's hearts with sorrow,
And made then 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.

(If you have the stomach for any more, lookhere )

 

[boann]

rod mckuen


I always knew
that you would find me,
no clock needed to remind
me that it would happen.
I planned on it, worked it out
hid in plain sight every day
knowing you would pass,
that way or this, come along,
go by, pause in moving to
here or somewhere; near or
far it did not matter. You
would arrive.

It kept the heart
alive and thriving in the clatter
of times' travel to know
that you would turn and see me
then not turn away.You here
or coming, unraveling the puzzle,
kept me whole and safe
and driving on toward this day.

When the evenings, like forever,
started fleeting, going fast
I could see you at some distance
disappearing in the mist.
In the mass of fondled faces
one imagines in a lifetime
yours was there just out of grasp.

As you fluttered in my future,
fled throughout my lifelong past
I expected every spring to bring you
to my arms, to my side. When
the autumns started coming thick
and firm and fast, I never once
gave up believing you'd arrive
with winters passing, you would
be here as the moon fell.

As the sun rose we would clasp
hands at first, then bodies closing
up that awful gap that life without
a life long partner leaves between
the noon and night line. Did I
falter in my faith? Once or twice
perhaps, but never long enough
to leave you languishing in some
dream that wasn't mine. Because
I always knew that you would
find me, I never sent out distress
signals, never tapped out SOS.

I was blessed
with growing knowledge, something
whispered do not worry, it will
happen, it's been planned. Nothing
here is happenstance. Do not hurry.
Do not pause to catch your breath.
So it was I always knew

Now and then I leapt to heaven
on another's stroke or kiss, lent
to me to keep me going in this
sure direction. Afterward the same
affection that I saved, assigned to you
only grew. I always knew that you
would find me and so I did not
bother scrawling each and every
new address on cloud or curb stone.
Why? I was waiting, you knew the rest.

A nocturne for The King of Naples,
A serenade or two for those who
got me through some fearful midnights.
Sonatas for some faces time erases but
does not forget. A double wind concerto
for the wind itself; it could have blown
me anywhere, but wouldn't, didn't. I
dropped some songs along the way in
laps of strangers, even laps I knew. But
this music you see spread around you
these notes and half notes, planted long
ago, that grew and grew was/were saved,
because I always knew that you would
find me and help me with the harvest.

The strongholds, the havens that
proved weak and wanting, lessons
learned, prizes earned, not always
given. Paths I paved, paths unpaved.
The rest of what I have to offer, little
things this life's amassed; for you,
for you, it was for you I saved
the best for last.

 

[Simon Darkshade]

Australiana - Austen Tayshus


SITTING AT HOME LAST SUNDAY MORNING
ME MATE BOOMERANG, SAID HE WAS HAVING A FEW FRIENDS AROUND FOR A BARBIE,
SAID HE MIGHT KOOKABURRA OR TWO,
I SAID SOUNDS GREAT WILL WALLABY THERE,
HE SAID YEAH AND VEGEMITE COME TOO.


SO I SAID TO THE WIFE YOU WANNA GOANNA,
SHE SAID I’LL GO IF DINGOES. I
SAID TO BOOMER WATTLE WE DO ABOUT NULLA,
HE SAID NULLABORS ME TO TEARS LEAVE HIM AT HOME.


WE GET TO THE PARTY AT ABOUT TWO,
WALK STRAIGHT OUT TO THE KITCHEN TO PUT SOME BOOZE IN THE FRIDGE
AND YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE IT,
THERE’S BOOMER’S WIFE WARRA SITTING THERE TRYING TO PLATYPUS, NOW I DON’T LIKE TO SPEAK ILLAWARRA,
BUT I MEAN HOW MUCH CAN A KOALA BEAR?
SO I GRABBED A BEER FLASHED ME WANGARATTA AND HEADED OUT TO JOIN THE PARTY.

JUST THEN AYERS ROCKS IN AND THINGS START HAPPENING.
THIS INDIAN GIRL MARSU TURNS UP DYING TO GO TO THE TOILET,
BUT SHE COULDN’T FIND IT I SAID TO ME MATE AL, HEY WHERE CAN MARSUPIAL?
HE SAID SHE COULD GO OUTBACK WITH THE FELLAS "SHE’S PROBABLY SEEN A COCKATOO".

A COUPLE OF QUEENSLAND AT THE GIG ONE SMELLING PRETTY HEAVILY OF AFTERSHAVE,
HE SAT DOWN NEXT TO ME, I SAID YOU KNOW MATE EUREKA STOCKADE.


IT WAS A BLOODY HOT DAY AND OSCAR FELT LIKE A SWIM,
HE SAID TO ENA YOU WANNA HAVE A DIP IN THE RIVERINA,
SHE SAID I HAVEN’T GOT MY KOSCIUSKO,
BO SAID COME IN STARKERS WATTLE LAKE EYRE,
ENA SAID WHAT! WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A THREDBO, PERISHER THOUGHT
HAS EUCUMBENE IN YET MAYBE I COULD BORROW HERS.

A FEW BLOKES DECIDED TO PLAY CRICKET,
I SAID LET WOMBAT AND TENTERFIELD AND THEY SAID I SHOULD BOWL BUT I WAS TOO OUT OF IT TO PLAY CRICKET
SO I SUGGESTED A GAME OF CARDS.
I SAID TO LYPTUS YOU WANNA GAME OF EUCALYPTUS,
HE SAID THERE’S NO POINT MATE DARWINS EVERY TIME.


BILL SAID HE’D LIKE A SMOKE,
BUT NOBODY KNEW WHERE THE DOPE WAS STASHED,
I SAID I THINK MERINOS, BUT I WAS JUST SPINNING A BIT OF A YARN. BARRY PULLS A JOINT OUT OF HIS POCKET,
BILL SAYS GREAT BARRIER REEFER, WHAT IS IT MATE?
NOOSA HEADS OF COURSE,
ME MATE ADELAIDE IT ON ME.
I SAID "CHUCK US THE TALLY HOBART,
THEY’RE OUT ON THE LAUNCESTON, CAN YOU GET THEM FOR ME?" BURNIE SAYS "SHE’S APPLES I’LL GET THEM FOR YOU".
IT WAS A GREAT JOINT TOO,
BLUE MOUNTAINS AWAY AND HIS THREE SISTERS.


JUST THEN ALICE SPRINGS INTO ACTION
AND STARTS TO PACK BILLABONG,
BUT YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE IT THE BONG’S BROKEN
I SAID "LORD HOWE’. HAYMAN!"

SOMEONE SHOUTS:
WILL A DIDJERIDOO?
I SAID WELL, ‘MMMMMMMAYBE IT’LL HAVE TO.’


I LOOK IN THE CORNER AND THERE’S BASS SITTING THERE
NOT GETTING INTO IT, NOT GETTING OUT OF IT.
I SAID "WHAT IS BASS STRAIT OR SOMETHING?"
BOOMER SAID "NO WAY MATEY HE’S A COPPER."
"YOU’RE JOKING MATE A COPPER I’M GETTING OUTA HERE LET’S GOANNA."
SHE SAID ’NO WAY’! I’M HANGING AROUND ‘TILL GUM LEAVES,
BESIDES I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE JACARANDA PARTY ON HIS OWN,
I THINK HE’S TRYING TO CRACK ON TOWOOMBA,
HE’S ALREADY TRIED TO MOUNT ISA
AND HE’LL DEFINITELY TRY TO LEAD YOU AUSTRALIANA."

 

[Pillager]

I'd never seen that before. It's very funny

 

[MrPresident]

The Unknown Citizen by W.H. Auden

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports of his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of the old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the war till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report of his union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day,
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows that he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High--Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A gramophone, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of the year;
When there was peace he was for peace; when there was war he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation,
And our teachers report he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

 

[Ren]

Old Aussie classic:

The Man From Snowy River
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up --
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least --
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die --
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend --
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump --
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat --
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

- A.B. 'Banjo' Patterson.

 

[MrPresident]

Have a Nice Day! by Spike Milligan

"Help, help," said a man, "I'm drowning."
"Hang on," said a man from the shore.
"Help, help," said the man, "I'm not clowning."
"Yes, I know, and I heard you before.
"Be patient, dear man who is drowning,
You see, I've got a disease.
I'm waiting for a Doctor J. Browning,
So do be patient, please."
"How long," said the man who was drowning,
"Will it take for the Doc to arrive?"
"Not very long," said the man with the disease.
"Till then try staying alive."
"Very well," said the man who was drowning,
"I'll try and stay afloat
By reciting the poems of Browning
And other things he wrote."
"Help, help," said the man who had a disease,
"I suddenly feel quite ill."
"Keep calm," said the man who was drowning,
"Breathe deeply and lay quite still."
"Oh dear," said the man with the awful disease,
"I think I'm going to die."
"Farewell," said the man who was drowning.
Said the man with disease, "Goodbye."
So the man who was drowning drownded
And the man with the disease passed away,
But apart from that and a fire in my hat
It's been a very nice day.

 

[Illustrious]

Many excellent choices so far. So many to choose from....

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixt, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most doth please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

Solitude, Alexander Pope

Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all's over;
I only vex you the more I try.
All's wrong that ever I've done or said,
And nought to help it in this dull head:
Shake hands, here's luck, good-bye.

But if you come to a road where danger
Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share,
Be good to the lad that loves you true
And the soul that was born to die for you,
And whistle and I'll be there.

More Poems, XXX Alfred Edward Housman


And finally, the greatest of all "roses are red" poems:

Rose are red,
Violets are blue;
I am a schizo -
What about me?

 

[kmad]

I dunno but I've been told,
eskimo pussy is pretty cold!
(apocalypse now)

 

[napoleon526]

Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda

All the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
Layin' in the sun,
Talkin' 'bout the things
They woulda coulda shoulda done...
But those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
All ran away and hid
From one little Did.


Strange Restaurant

I said, "I'll take the T-bone steak."
A soft voice mooed, "Oh wow."
And I looked up and realized
The waitress was a cow.
I cried, "Mistake--forget the the steak.
I'll take the chicken then."
I heard a cluck--'twas just my luck
The busboy was a hen.
I said, "Okay no, fowl today.
I'll have the seafood dish."
Then I saw through the kitchen door
The cook--he was a fish.
I screamed, "Is there anyone workin' here
Who's an onion or a beet?
No? Your're sure? Okay then friends,
A salad's what I'll eat."
They looked at me. "Oh,no," they said,
"The owner is a cabbage head."

- Shel Silverstein

 

[napoleon526]

Some more Shel Silverstein:

Sick

'I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann Mckay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more-that's seventeen,
and don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue-
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke-
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I harkley whisper when I speak.
My tounge is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is...Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"


Backward Bill

Backward Bill, Backward Bill,
He lives way up on Backward Hill,
Which is really a hole in the sandy ground
(But that's a hill turned upside down).

Backward Bill's got a backward shack
With a big front porch that's build out back.
You walk through the window and look out the door,
And the cellar is up on the very top floor.

Backward Bill he rides like the wind
Don't know where he's going but sees where he's been.
His spurs they go "neigh" and his horse it goes "clang,"
And his six-gun goes "gnab," it never goes "bang."

Backwar Bill's got a backward pup,
They eat thier supper when the sun comes up,
And he's got a wife named Backward Lil,
"She's my own true hate," says Backward Bill.

Backward Bill wears his hat on his toes
And puts on his underwear over his clothes.
And come every payday he pays his boss,
And rides off a-smilin 'a-carryin' his hoss.


Smart

my dad gave me one dallar bill
'Cause I'm his smartest son,
And I swapped it for two shiny quarters
'Cause two is mire than one!

And then I took the quarters
And traded them to Lou
For three dimes--I guess he don't know
That three is more than two!

Just then, along came old blind Bates
And just 'cause he can't see
He gave me four nicles for my three dimes,
And four is more that three!

And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs
Down at the seed-feed store,
And the fool gave my five pennies for them,
And five is more that four!

And then I went and showed my dad,
And he got red in the cheeks
And closed his eyes and shock his head--
Too proud of me to speak!

 

[polymath]

"Epitaph on a tyrant" - W.H.Auden

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

 

[MrPresident]

Big Mary by Bill Dodds

Mary had a little lamb,
a little toast,
a little jam,
a little pizza
and some cake,
some French fries
and a chocolate shake,
a little burger
on a bun.
And that's why Mary
weighs a ton.

 

[Hamlet]

Darkness, by Lord Byron.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe

 

[CommiePlanner]

Some say the world will end in fire,
some say in ice
From what I know of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire
But if it should persih twice,
i know enough of hate
For that destruction
ice is also great,
and would suffice

 

[Padma]

The Palace
1902
Rudyard Kipling


WHEN I was King and a Mason—a Master proven and skilled—
I cleared me ground for a Palace such as a King should build.
I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently, under the silt,
I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built.

There was no worth in the fashion—there was no wit in the plan—
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran—
Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known.”

Swift to my use in my trenches, where my well-planned ground-works grew,
I tumbled his quoins and his ashlars, and cut and reset them anew.
Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it, slaked it, and spread;
Taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead.

Yet I despised not nor gloried; yet, as we wrenched them apart,
I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder’s heart.
As he had risen and pleaded, so did I understand
The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned.

When I was a King and a Mason—in the open noon of my pride,
They sent me a Word from the Darkness—They whispered and called me aside.
They said—“The end is forbidden.” They said—“Thy use is fulfilled.
“Thy Palace shall stand as that other’s—the spoil of a King who shall build.”

I called my men from my trenches, my quarries, my wharves, and my sheers.
All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years.
Only I cut on the timber—only I carved on the stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known !”

 

[philippe]

I can not translate it becuase it would destroy it essence.
wolken in de lucht
als je goed kijkt
een vaag beeld dat blijf
___________________
een laan,
( op geen landkaartje te vinden)
herboren
door de zomerregen,

houdt
nu ook de kinderpasjes
weggespoeld zijn
'n beetje eenzaam
z'n adem in

zelfs een lantaarn
(zo eentje zoals enkel
een verliefde één tekenen kan)
laat het praten maar

want de rennende
melodie in hun hart
vindt toch de weg
naar de kus aan het eind.

 

[napoleon526]

I liked this poem so much I made it my sig:


The Emperor of Ice-Cream
Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

 

[sween32]

How beautiful, sincere lament, the wisdom born of tears,
The courage called for to repent the bloodshed through the years.
America! America! God grant that we may be
A nation blessed with none oppressed, true land of liberty.

Miriam Therese Winter, 1993.

 

[Perfection]

Originally posted by polymath
"Epitaph on a tyrant" - W.H.Auden

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

Who's after me, I demand to know!