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A Poem a Day

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Centrix Vigilis View Drop Down
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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Topic: A Poem a Day
    Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 16:56

The Lone Trail

Robert Service
 
 
Ye who know the Lone Trail
fain would follow it,
Though it lead to glory
or the darkness of the pit.

Ye who take the Lone Trail,
bid your love good-by;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail
follow till you die.

The trails of the world be countless,
and most of the trails be tried;
You tread on the heels of the many,
till you come where the ways divide;

And one lies safe in the sunlight,
and the other is dreary and wan,
Yet you look aslant at the Lone Trail,
and the Lone Trail lures you on.

And somehow you're sick of the highway,
with its noise and its easy needs,
And you seek the risk of the by-way,
and you reck not where it leads.

And sometimes it leads to the desert,
and the tongue swells out of the mouth,
And you stagger blind to the mirage,
to die in the mocking drouth.

And sometimes it leads to the mountain,
to the light of the lone camp-fire,
And you gnaw your belt in the anguish
of hunger-goaded desire.

And sometimes it leads to the Southland,
to the swamp where the orchid glows,
And you rave to your grave with the fever,
and they rob the corpse for its clothes.

And sometimes it leads to the Northland,
and the scurvy softens your bones,
And your flesh dints in like putty,
and you spit out your teeth like stones.

And sometimes it leads to a coral reef
in the wash of a weedy sea,
And you sit and stare at the empty glare
where the gulls wait greedily.

And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail,
and the snows where your torn feet freeze,
And you whittle away the useless clay,
and crawl on your hands and knees.

Often it leads to the dead-pit;
always it leads to pain;
By the bones of your brothers ye know it,
but oh, to follow you're fain.

By your bones they will follow behind you,
till the ways of the world are made plain.
Bid good-by to sweetheart,
bid good-by to friend;

The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail
follow to the end.
Tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true;
Lover of the Lone Trail, the Lone Trail waits for you.

"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

S. T. Friedman


Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 02:22
Edgar Alan Po - "The City in the Sea"

      Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.



Edited by Don Quixote - 24-Aug-2011 at 02:24
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  Quote Michael Collins Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 12:27
I'll be posting here shortly as promised - I'm just very tight for time at the minute. 
Is í labhairt a dteanga an moladh is mó is féidir linn a thabhairt dár namhaid.
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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 07:15
The only thing ya missing is a good horse and forty Cav troopers following behind ya and that red and white guidon. Sabers.... come with the basic kit.Wink
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

S. T. Friedman


Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 07:07
Good stuff.
 
No wonder ya rescue, on occasion, 'damsels in distress'.
 
You were born for it.
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

S. T. Friedman


Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 01:05
Thank you, guys, for those great contributions!

I have for today another Vysotsky song/poem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=104cOJeGeTA
I recommend the song before or in the same time with the poem, /because my link is dead one have to paste the URL on the search/ it adds much of the feeling to the poem, especially when one reads a translation, as I said many times Russian doesn't carry well in English. It's a very tragic song...very Slavic, I would say, with the typical for the Russian worldview anarchic bursting of pain and hope, despair and enthusiasm, the drinken-ness of the coming end and the personal decision to meet it head-on. No wonder Anarchism, the most misunderstood political ideal ever, started in Russia.

Unruly horses
Russian title: Koni priveredlivye
Along the chasm's edge, upon the precipice's brink
I urge my horses onward, I coerce them whiplash flying.
I'm somehow short of breath, I gulp the air, the wind I drink...
I'm gripped with mortal ecstasy: I'm dying, oh, I'm dying!

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
Pay no heed to the lash's taut thong.
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I've not lived out my life, I can't finish my song.

I'll water my horses,
I'll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
ere I sink.

I'll perish: from its outstretched hand the frenzied wind will blow me,
At a gallop through the morning snow my sleigh's drawn helter-skelter.
Be patient, patient, wayward horses, make the journey slowly,
And delay if but a while before we reach the final shelter.

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
You don't serve the lash or the thong.
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I've not lived out my life, I can't finish my song.

I'll water my horses,
I'll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
ere I sink.

It's all over: guests to God cannot delay until the morrow.
But why then should the angels' voices sound so harsh and hoarse?
Is it but the harness bell that jangles wildly out of sorrow,
Or do I harangue the horses to slow down their hectic course?

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
I implore you, don't gallop headlong!
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I've not lived out my life, yet I'd finish my song.

I'll water my horses,
I'll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
ere I sink.



Edited by Don Quixote - 23-Aug-2011 at 01:07
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  Quote Chookie Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 22-Aug-2011 at 17:33

The Return (A Piper's Vaunting) by Pittendrigh Macgillivray

Och hey! for the splendour of tartans!
And hey for the dirk and the targe!
The race that was hard as the Spartans
Shall return again to the charge:

Shall come back again to the heather,
Like eagles, with beak and with claws
To take and to scatter for ever
The Sasennach thieves and their laws.

Och, then, for the bonnet and feather!
The pipe and its vaunting clear:
Och, then, for the glens and the heather!
And all that the Gael holds dear.

For money you did what guns could not do.........
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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 22-Aug-2011 at 04:13

Shame on ya if ya don't know Banjo Patterson.

 

 

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 the 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 the 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,
And 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 farther 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 heels 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 reed-beds 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.

(c) A B Paterson

 



Edited by Centrix Vigilis - 22-Aug-2011 at 04:15
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

S. T. Friedman


Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 22:11
Indeed it is what I have enjoyed about this member a great deal here...and elsewhere.
 
And to help it along....I render one from my favorite Swd/Fan Author who was unfortunately not as well know as a tremendous poet.
 
From the pen of the legendary RE Howard.
 
''A poem about Cimmeria, the homeland of Conan:

Cimmeria''
 
I remember
The dark woods, masking slopes of sombre hills;
The grey clouds' leaden everlasting arch;
The dusky streams that flowed without a sound,
And the lone winds that whispered down the passes.

Vista upon vista marching, hills on hills,
Slope beyond slope, each dark with sullen trees,
Our gaunt land lay. So when a man climbed up
A rugged peak and gazed, his shaded eye
Saw but the endless vista--hill on hill,
Slope beyond slope, each hooded like its brothers.

It was gloomy land that seemed to hold
All winds and clouds and dreams that shun the sun,
With bare boughs rattling in the lonesome winds,
And the dark woodlands brooding over all,
Not even lightened by the rare dim sun
Which made squat shadows out of men; they called it
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and deep Night.

It was so long ago and far away
I have forgotten the very name men called me.
The axe and flint-tipped spear are like a dream,
And hunts and wars are like shadows. I recall
Only the stillness of that sombre land;
The clouds that piled forever on the hills,
The dimness of the everlasting woods.
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night.


RE Howard
 
 
 


Edited by Centrix Vigilis - 21-Aug-2011 at 22:13
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

S. T. Friedman


Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Nick1986 Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 21:18
Great poems
Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 21:14
"If" is pretty much my life credo, so in a way it was my introduction. Now, something more in agreement with my mood today, a poem by Vladimir  Vysotcky. It's actually a song, so I will post both the song and the lyrics.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGuIO-BIsYY

How I detest...
Russian title: Ya ne lyublyu
How I detest the fatal final curtain!
I never find life dull or wearying.
I've got no time for any time or season
When I don't have a cheerful song to sing.

I've got no time for cynicism cold, nor
Can I be fooled by hankerings for the Grail.
I hate when people peer over my shoulder
And crane their necks to try to read my mail.

I can't stand those whose actions are half-hearted,
Or who interrupt a cordial exchange;
Or shoot you in the back, an easy target,
Or pull a gun on you at point-blank range.

I can't stand idle talk in any vein,
The worms of doubt, the needles of false praise,
Or things that are meant to go against the grain
And grate your nerves like metal scraped on glass.

I don't like self-assured complacency.
You're better off being hanged and letting rip.
I don't like those who forget all decency
And give an eager ear to slanderous gossip

I don't feel sympathy for damaged limbs
Or broken wings - lame ducks I can't abide.
I don't like bullies or acquiescent victims
Yet pity moves me for Christ crucified.

I hate it when I've played the coward's part.
I hate to see the guiltless victimized.
I hate when people pry into my heart,
The more so when it's spat on and despised.

I can't abide the stadium or ring
Where all is vilely cheapened and defied.
Whatever alterations time may bring.
To these I know I wont be reconciled.




Edited by Don Quixote - 21-Aug-2011 at 21:17
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 20:48
I love poetry to death, and cannot make a day without reading at least one poem.
So, I will post a poem every day or so, please, join me!

The first one is

Rudyard Kipling
If

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!





Edited by Don Quixote - 21-Aug-2011 at 21:09
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