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A Poem a Day

Printed From: History Community ~ All Empires
Category: Scholarly Pursuits
Forum Name: Literary Pursuits
Forum Discription: all things relating to the written word
URL: http://www.allempires.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=30080
Printed Date: 02-Dec-2021 at 01:47
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Topic: A Poem a Day
Posted By: Don Quixote
Subject: A Poem a Day
Date 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

http://www.everypoet.com/archive/poetry/Rudyard_Kipling/kipling_contents.htm - 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!






Replies:
Posted By: Don Quixote
Date 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: http://www.kulichki.com/vv/pesni/ya-ne-lyublyu-fatalnogo.html - 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.




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Posted By: Nick1986
Date Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 21:18
Great poems

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Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date 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
 
http://themysticfool.blogspot.com/2007/12/poems-by-robert-e-howard.html - http://themysticfool.blogspot.com/2007/12/poems-by-robert-e-howard.html
 
 


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date 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

 



-------------
"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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date 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.........


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date 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: http://www.kulichki.com/vv/pesni/vdol-obryva-po-nad.html - 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.



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Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date 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'



Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date 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'



Posted By: Michael Collins
Date 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. 

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Is í labhairt a dteanga an moladh is mó is féidir linn a thabhairt dár namhaid.


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date 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.



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Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date 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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:00
An Eala Bhan  (Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna)

Gur duilich leam mar tha mi
'S mo chridhe 'n sas aig bron
Bhon an uair a dh'fhag mi
Beanntan ard a' cheo
Gleanntannan a'mhanrain
Nan loch, nam bagh 's nan srom
'S an eala bhan tha tamh ann
Gach la air 'm bheil mi 'n toir.
A Mhagaidh na bi tursach
A ruin, ged gheibhinn bas-
Co am fear am measg an t-sluaigh
A mhaireas buan gu brath?
Chan eil sinn uile ach air chuairt
Mar dhithein buaile fas
Bheir siantannan na blianna sios
'S nach tog a' ghrian an aird.
Tha 'n talamh leir mun cuairt dhiom
'Na mheallan suas 's na neoil;
Aig na 'shells a' bualadh -
Cha leir dhomh bhuam le ceo:
Gun chlaisneachd aig mo chluasan
Le fuaim a' ghunna mhoir;
Ach ged tha 'n uair seo cruaidh orm
Tha mo smuaintean air NicLeoid.
Air m' uilinn anns na truinnsichean
Tha m' inntinn ort, a ghraidh;
Nam chadal bidh mi a' bruadar ort
Cha dualach dhomh bhith slan;
Tha m' aigne air a lionadh
Le cianalas cho lan
'S a'ghruag a dh'fhas cho ruadh orm
A nis air thuar bhith ban
Oidhche mhath leat fhein, a ruin
Nad leabaidh chubhraidh bhlath;
Cadal samhach air a chul
Do dhusgadh sunndach slan
Tha mise 'n seo 's an truinnsidh fhuar
'S nam chluasan fuaim bhais
Gun duil ri faighinn as le buaidh -
Tha 'n cuan cho buan ri shnamh.

The White Swan (English)

Sad I consider my condition
With my heart engaged with sorrow
From the very time that I left The high bens of the mist
The little glens of dalliance
Of the lochs, the bays and the forelands
And the white swan dwelling there
Whom I daily pursue.
Maggie, don't be sad
Love, if I should die -
Who among men
Endures eternally?
We are all only on a journey
Like flowers in the deserted cattle fold
That the year's wind and rain will bring down
And that the sun cannot raise.
All the ground around me
Is like hail in the heavens;
With the shells exploding -
I am blinded by smoke:
My ears are deafened
By the roar of the cannon;
But despite the savagery of the moment
My thoughts are on the girl called MacLeod.
Crouched in the trenches
My mind is fixed on you, love;
In sleep I dream of you
I am not fated to survive;
My spirit is filled
With a surfeit of longing
And my hair once so auburn
Is now almost white.
Goodnight to you, love
In your warm, sweet-smelling bed;
May you have peaceful sleep and afterwards
May you waken healthy and in good spirits
I am here in the cold trench
With the clamour of death in my ears
With no hope of returning victorious-
The ocean is too wide to swim.


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For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:05
That..is a classic.
 
Reference a question concerning Robert Service.
See: http://www.birdsnest.com/rservice.htm - http://www.birdsnest.com/rservice.htm


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Michael Collins
Date Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:06
  1. 1] I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow,
    2] That have no treasure but hope,
    3] No riches laid up but a memory
    4] Of an Ancient glory.
    5] My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
    6] I am of the blood of serfs;
    7] The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten,
    8] Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
    9] And, though gentle, have served churls;
    10] The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch is familiar to me,
    11] Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
    12] Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers,
    13] I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone,
    14] I that have never submitted;
    15] I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,

    p.338

    16] I that have vision and prophecy and the gift of fiery speech,
    17] I that have spoken with God on the top of His holy hill.
  2. 18] And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
    19] I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire:
    20] My heart has been heavy with the grief of mothers,
    21] My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
    22] I have yearned with old wistful men,
    23] And laughed or cursed with young men;
    24] Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it,
    25] Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free,
    26] Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
    27] Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and of their jailors
    28] With their writs of summons and their handcuffs,
    29] Men mean and cruel!

    p.339

    30] I could have borne stripes on my body rather than this shame of my people.
  3. 31] And now I speak, being full of vision;
    32] I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to the masters of my people.
    33] I say to my people that they are holy, that they are august, despite their chains,
    34] That they are greater than those that hold them, and stronger and purer,
    35] That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
    36] God the unforgetting, the dear God that loves the peoples
    37] For whom He died naked, suffering shame.
    38] And I say to my people's masters: Beware,
    39] Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people,
    40] Who shall take what ye would not give.
    41] Did ye think to conquer the people,
    42] Or that Law is stronger than life and than men's desire to be free?
    43] We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held,
    44] Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars!

- P.H. Pearse


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Is í labhairt a dteanga an moladh is mó is féidir linn a thabhairt dár namhaid.


Posted By: Nick1986
Date Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:09
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

-------------
Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 20:20
Really good poems, everyone!
Mine for today is a Kipling:

A Ballad of Jakkko Hill

One moment bid the horses wait,
Since tiffin is not laid till three,
Below the upward path and strait
You climbed a year ago with me.
Love came upon us suddenly
And loosed -- an idle hour to kill --
A headless, harmless armory
That smote us both on Jakko Hill.

Ah, Heaven! we would wait and wait
Through Time and to Eternity!
Ah, Heaven! we could conquer Fate
With more than Godlike constancy
I cut the date upon a tree --
Here stand the clumsy figures still:
"10-7-85, A.D."
Damp in the mists on Jakko Hill.

What came of high resolve and great,
And until Death fidelity?
Whose horse is waiting at your gate?
Whose 'rickshaw-wheels ride over me?
No Saint's, I swear; and -- let me see
To-night what names your programme fill --
We drift asunder merrily,
As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill.

L'ENVOI.
Princess, behold our ancient state
Has clean departed; and we see
'Twas Idleness we took for Fate
That bound light bonds on you and me.
Amen! Here ends the comedy
Where it began in all good will,
Since Love and Leave together flee
As driven mist on Jakko Hill!



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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 26-Aug-2011 at 01:41
Longfellow, The Battle of Lovell's Pond:

http://www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_poem.php?pid=2095 - The Battle of Lovell's Pond

Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,
As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,
Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.

The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell
Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;
The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er,
And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,
And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.



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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 28-Aug-2011 at 01:04
Vladimir Mayakovsky:

I will sew myself black trousers
from the velvet of my voice.
And from three yards of sunset, a yellow blouse.
Along the world's main street, along its glossy lanes,
I will saunter with the gait of Don Juan, a fop.

Let the earth, overripe and placid, cry out:
"You would rape the green Spring!"
I'll yell at the sun with an impudent grin
"I prefer to prance on smooth
asphalt!"

Isn't it because the sky is blue,
And the earth is my lover in this spring
cleaning,
that I give you verses fun as bi-bah-boh
and sharp and useful as toothpicks!

Women who love my flesh, and you,
girl, looking at me like a brother,
toss your smiles to me, the poet -
and I'll sew them like flowers onto my fop's blouse!

1914



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Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 28-Aug-2011 at 01:09
Boris Pasternak:
Sparrow Hills

 

Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!

Summer’s stream won’t run for ever.

We can’t pump out the accordion’s roar

night after night, in a dusty fever.

 I’ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies!

No wave will lift its hands to the stars.

They say – who believes? No face in the leaves,

no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts.

Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming.

It’s noon in the world. Where are your eyes?

See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,

fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.

Here, the city’s trolley-lines end.

Beyond there’s no rails, it’s the trees.

Beyond – it’s Sunday, breaking branches,

the glade running off, sliding on leaves.

Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking,

‘The world’s always like this’, says the wood.

So the copse planned it, the clearing was told,

So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.

 



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Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 28-Aug-2011 at 16:29

Hardihood in time of battle

O Children of Conn, remember hardihood in time of battle,
Be strong, nursing your wrath,
Be resolute and fierce,
Be forceful, standing your ground,
Be nimble and full of valour,
Be dour, inspiring fear,
Be exceeding fierce, recklessly daring,
Be spirited, inflicting great wounds,
Be venomous, implacable,
Be glorious, nobly powerful,
Be exceedingly fierce, king-like,
Be vigorous, nimble footed
in winning the battle against your enemies.
O Children of Conn of the Hundred Battles,
Now is the time for you to win renown,
O raging whelps,
O sturdy bears,
O most sprightly lions,
O battle-loving warriors,
The Children of Conn of the Hundred Battles,
O Children of Conn, remember

hardihood in time of battle.



-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 29-Aug-2011 at 15:54

At birth a witch laid on me monstrous spells,
And I have trod strange highroads all my days,
Turning my feet to gray, unholy ways.
I grope for stems of broken asphodels;
HIgh on the rims of bare, fiend-haunted fells,
I follow cloven tracks that lie ablaze;
And ghosts have led me through the moonlight's haze
To talk with demons in the granite hells.

Seas crash upon dragon-guarded shores,
Bursting in crimson moons of burning spray,
And iron castles ope to me their doors,
And serpent-women lure with harp and lay.
The misty waves shake now to phantom oars—
Seek not for me; I sail to meet the day.


RE Howard



-------------
"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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 30-Aug-2011 at 16:57
The Princess of the Tide (by Mikhail Lermontov)

One day swimming his horse was a prince by the sea
When he heard a voice cry: “Over here! Look at me!”

The steed started and snorted, but ‘twas nothing to him
He shook off a spray and continued to swim.

Said the voice: “I am born to the King of the Tide"
“Wilt thou one lordly night in my sweet arms abide?”

And behold! From the wake, there a hand did emerge
Reaching out for the bridle of silk on the surge.

A young, pretty head did the brine then reveal
With long braided hair draped in sea-grass of bright teal.

Two dark blue eyes burned with passion’s pure fire
Sea foam rolled on her cheeks like white pearls of desire.

Thought the prince: “For this moment I surely was made . . .”
And he deftly reached out to catch hold of a braid.

He caught her and held her with a warrior’s arm
She splashed and she struggled with panicked alarm

Heedless he dragged her up onto the shore
Then his shouts to his comrades did loudly outpour

“Fellows! Come and see! I am calling to you!”
“Look what I have fished out of bottomless blue!”

“What are you waiting for! Do not delay!”
“You’ve not seen such beauty in many a day!”

And then he turned back to look down on his prize
But alas! The fire was already leaving her eyes!

For there lying limp on the hot golden sand
Was her green tail, like a fish, out of place on the land

It was covered in scales like that of a snake
Already coiling and drying as the sun did it bake

Sweat streamed from her brow presaging her doom
And her eyes quickly darkened with ominous gloom

Her poor hands grew pale as she clutched at the sand
Her lips whispered something he could not understand

The prince walked away for he could not abide:
Would he ever forget the princess of the tide?

-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 30-Aug-2011 at 17:02

Pheigheinn a' Chorrain? (written by me)

Alas, the glens are lying bare, crofts are now deserted
Our people now are scattered wide and sheep replace the music.
The factors came and with them police, all the way from Glasgow
The people came from all around, the grazings to defend,
From Braes and Tormore, Balmeanach too,
But where were the men, the men of Peinnchorran
"Cait' am bheil fir Pheigheinn a' Chorrainn?"


Black was the wood the rooftree was made from
Blacker the heart of the cash-grabbing landlord
No profit in people, the lordling wants money,
Clearing out people for sheep are much better.
For our croftlands the people rose up in anger
But where were the men, the men of Peinnchorrain?
"Cait' am bheil fir Pheigheinn a' Chorrainn?"


You burned all our homes, you forced us to wander
We gave you our loyalty, our love and our honour,
More bitter than aloes, the taint of your hunger.
For money you did what guns could not do
Evicting the clansmen who gave you your honour.
And where were the men, the men of Peinnchorrain?
"Cait' am bheil fir Pheigheinn a' Chorrainn?"


Many have died, forcèd down to the shores
And others are gone, far over the seas,
The glens are deserted, the rooftrees are down,
Sheep replace people, the music is gone,
Damn all the lordlings who cleared out our people,
And where were the men, the men of Peinnchorrain?
"Cait' am bheil fir Pheigheinn a' Chorrainn?"


The townships are empty and ruined our homes
For money they cleared us, who gave them their fame.
For a sheep was worth more than the whole of the clan.
Across the seas we made our lives,
The rooftrees are burned and the music has gone
But where were the men, the men of Peinnchorrain?
"Cait' am bheil fir Pheigheinn a' Chorrainn?"



-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 30-Aug-2011 at 17:16
The Cavalrymen's Poem

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.



-------------
"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'



Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 30-Aug-2011 at 18:11
To All Russians Who Voted Stalin the 3rd Best Russian in 2008

Death upon the vortex, passions on the run
The sun never dries them, so they go beserk.
Swimming on the wavebacks on the human sea,
Never ever ending - will not ever Be.

Prisoners of passions ancient as the sea
Are they to be allowed themselves to foresee?
Fault of the upbringing - to collect remorse,
Not to now where to stop and repose,

Victims of the time and geographic chance,
Like some silent fishes dance themselves in trance.
Time will go and time will come, and regimes will change,
But in the spot of memory the darkest shape still blaze -

Like some shapeless Beghemot, like a titan grim,
With green coat, mustaches, hat with a red trim,
To call back to the old fame, to the order strong,
Like so many deer called to the wolf's throne,

And to tempt, to promise something simply clear -
All fishes end in the pan, in the wolf's gut ends the deer.
But, we are simply human, we all covet peace -
Gives us simple orders, we'll think we are free.

For the Liberty is wide, with no place to hide,
And you are all that you can blame for your own demise.
So, in the freedom rocking boat we're hiding from daylight -
And dreaming of security under the Prison's Guard.
DQ

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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 30-Aug-2011 at 19:24
Originally posted by Chookie


Pheigheinn a' Chorrain? (written by me)

A good one, ChookieSmile! You have to start giving short history lessons with your poems, so we can locate them in time. I have to admit, Welsh history is all...well..Welsh to me. I'll do a google or two to find out the event you are talking about.


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


Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 31-Aug-2011 at 17:17
Originally posted by Don Quixote

Originally posted by Chookie


Pheigheinn a' Chorrain? (written by me)

A good one, ChookieSmile! You have to start giving short history lessons with your poems, so we can locate them in time. I have to admit, Welsh history is all...well..Welsh to me. I'll do a google or two to find out the event you are talking about.

Welsh history is a mystery to me too Andy, I'm Scots..........


-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 31-Aug-2011 at 19:11
Originally posted by Chookie

Originally posted by Don Quixote

Originally posted by Chookie


Pheigheinn a' Chorrain? (written by me)

A good one, ChookieSmile! You have to start giving short history lessons with your poems, so we can locate them in time. I have to admit, Welsh history is all...well..Welsh to me. I'll do a google or two to find out the event you are talking about.

Welsh history is a mystery to me too Andy, I'm Scots..........

Ops...sorry, Chookie! I was under the impression that you are Welsh because you explained to me who is Welsh and who is not on a very old thread elsewhere. Then what is the language you have your signature in, and sometimes post poems in, like the name of this poem? Forgive my dark Balkanic ignoranceCry


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 31-Aug-2011 at 19:43
Kostantin Simonov "Wait for Me":

Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait with all you've got!
Wait, when dreary yellow rains
Tell you, you should not.
Wait when snow is falling fast,
Wait when summer's hot,
Wait when yesterdays are past,
Others are forgot.
Wait, when from that far-off place,
Letters don't arrive.
Wait, when those with whom you wait
Doubt if I'm alive.

Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait in patience yet
When they tell you off by heart
That you should forget.
Even when my dearest ones
Say that I am lost,
Even when my friends give up,
Sit and count the cost,
Drink a glass of bitter wine
To the fallen friend -
Wait! And do not drink with them!
Wait until the end!

Wait for me and I'll come back,
Dodging every fate!
"What a bit of luck!" they'll say,
Those that would not  wait.
They will never understand
How amidst the strife,
By your waiting for me, dear,
You had saved my life.
Only you and I will know
How you got me through.
Simply - you knew how to wait -
No one else but you.





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


Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 01-Sep-2011 at 17:36
Originally posted by Don Quixote

Ops...sorry, Chookie! I was under the impression that you are Welsh because you explained to me who is Welsh and who is not on a very old thread elsewhere. Then what is the language you have your signature in, and sometimes post poems in, like the name of this poem? Forgive my dark Balkanic ignoranceCry

No problem Andy. My signature is in Gàidhlig (Scots Gaelic) and is a quotation from Tacitus referring to a desolation (Roman made). The title of the poem is the name of a crofting village in Skye and the occasion was the Battle of the Braes in 1882.

-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 01-Sep-2011 at 18:49
Originally posted by Chookie

Originally posted by Don Quixote

Ops...sorry, Chookie! I was under the impression that you are Welsh because you explained to me who is Welsh and who is not on a very old thread elsewhere. Then what is the language you have your signature in, and sometimes post poems in, like the name of this poem? Forgive my dark Balkanic ignoranceCry

No problem Andy. My signature is in Gàidhlig (Scots Gaelic) and is a quotation from Tacitus referring to a desolation (Roman made). The title of the poem is the name of a crofting village in Skye and the occasion was the Battle of the Braes in 1882.

Thank you, Chookie. I was under the impression that the Scots speak like Robert Burns, and he is quite readable /with a dictionary, but still readable/, and I though that only Welsh nowadays speak Gaelic; as I see I was Deadwrong.


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 01-Sep-2011 at 19:15
This is IMHO the best poem Oscar Wilde ever created, and I'll post it even though it's very long; but I'm breaking one rule or another I would like to be told so I can take it off, it will be no problem:
The Ballad Of Reading Gaol

by Oscar Wilde
(1854-1900)


I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
'THAT FELLOW'S GOT TO SWING.'

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty space.

He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats,
and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass:
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.

II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
In the suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its ravelled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That in the springtime shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer's collar take
His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock's dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
In God's sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
Two outcast men we were:
The world had thrust us from its heart,
And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had caught us in its snare.

III

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called,
And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
The hangman's hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher's doom
Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
Pent up in Murderers' Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fools' Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devil's Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
Went shuffling through the gloom:
And each man trembled as he crept
Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watchers watched him as he slept,
And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
With a hangman close at hand.

But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept:
So we - the fool, the fraud, the knave -
That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
Mad mourners of a corse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
Was the savour of Remorse.

The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
But never came the day:
And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
Like travellers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and long they sang,
For they sang to wake the dead.

'Oho!' they cried, 'The world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame.'

No things of air these antics were,
That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
With the mincing step of a demirep
Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning steel
We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars,
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or to give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
From some leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.

IV

There is no chapel on the day
On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,
But not in wonted way,
For this man's face was white with fear,
And that man's face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived,
Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The Memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
And Terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at,
By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
And the soft flesh by day,
It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
Christ brings His will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
May bloom in prison-air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who tramp the yard
That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit may not walk by night
That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may but weep that lies
In such unholy ground,

He is at peace - this wretched man -
At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
They did not even toll
A requiem that might have brought
Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
And gave him to the flies:
They mocked the swollen purple throat,
And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonoured grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn

V

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother's life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.

This too I know - and wise it were
If each could know the same -
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
Bloom well in prison-air;
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair.

For they starve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is a foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan:
But God's eternal Laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat,
And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
His soul of his soul's strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal.

VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
Eaten by teeth of flame,
In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!






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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 03-Sep-2011 at 05:25
The Intrepid Captain
The storm is a pack of wolves
howling and tearing at the sky
with razor-sharp fangs and claws.
The intrepid captain’s raven-black hair flies
like a pennant in the wind
as she brazenly shouts orders.
Silver waves threaten to engulf the sailors,
but the brave men and women
battle on through the night
to keep their ship afloat.
Golden shards of sunlight pierce gray clouds
as the rain slows to a drizzle.
Dawn’s soft glow illuminates the waves
while drops of liquid sunlight spray the helm.
The caravel sails towards the sun-streaked sky,
and whatever adventures await.

Unknown
http://opossumsal.homestead.com/Oceans/TheIntrepidCaptain.html - http://opossumsal.homestead.com/Oceans/TheIntrepidCaptain.html

-------------
"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'



Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 04-Sep-2011 at 12:55


I'll never relinquish passion
Whatever however it costs
I don't want drab revelations
That's it's a path  running in bog

I don't want stories to hear
About how saintly who was
Nor I'm about to revere
Some ascetic to reason who lost

I want all my days to be Blasting
I want all my nights to be Flair
Frying in flights orgiastic
Blind ones on the edge of despair

I'd rather have my heaven here
Whatever the cost for me holds
If all good dogs go to heaven
This Dog does not care at all.


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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 04-Sep-2011 at 19:33
Song of the Picts
 
Wolf on the height
Mocking the night;
Slow comes the light
Of a nation's new dawn.
Shadow hordes massed
Out of the past.
Fame that shall last
Strides on and on.
Over the vale
Thunders the gale
Bearing the tale
Of a nation up-lifted.
Flee, wolf and kite!
Fame that is bright.
 
RE Howard


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 05-Sep-2011 at 20:33
The Conqueror Worm
 
 
       Lo! 'tis a gala night
         Within the lonesome latter years!
       An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
         In veils, and drowned in tears,
       Sit in a theatre, to see
         A play of hopes and fears,
       While the orchestra breathes fitfully
         The music of the spheres.

       Mimes, in the form of God on high,
         Mutter and mumble low,
       And hither and thither fly-
         Mere puppets they, who come and go
       At bidding of vast formless things
         That shift the scenery to and fro,
       Flapping from out their Condor wings
         Invisible Woe!

       That motley drama- oh, be sure
         It shall not be forgot!
       With its Phantom chased for evermore,
         By a crowd that seize it not,
       Through a circle that ever returneth in
         To the self-same spot,
       And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
         And Horror the soul of the plot.

       But see, amid the mimic rout
         A crawling shape intrude!
       A blood-red thing that writhes from out
         The scenic solitude!
       It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
         The mimes become its food,
       And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
         In human gore imbued.

       Out- out are the lights- out all!
         And, over each quivering form,
       The curtain, a funeral pall,
         Comes down with the rush of a storm,
       While the angels, all pallid and wan,
         Uprising, unveiling, affirm
       That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
         And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
 
From Ligeia
 
EA Poe


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 07-Sep-2011 at 15:36

Violet de Vere (Robert W Service)

You've heard of Violet de Vere, strip-teaser of renown,

Whose sitting-base out-faired the face of any girl in town;
Well, she was haled before the Bench for breachin' of the peace,
which signifies araisin' Cain, an' beatin' up the police.

So there she stood before the court of ruddy Judge McGraw,

Whom folks called Old Necessity, because he knew no law.
Aye, crackin' in a silken gown, an' sheddin, of a tear,
Ashine wi' gold and' precious stones sat Violet de Vere.

Old Judge McGraw looked dourly down an' stroked his silver beard.
Said he: “Although the Sheriff's bruised, the lady should be heared.

What can you say in your defence? We'll give you a square deal.”
“I just forget,” said Violet. “Maybe it was my heel.

I always want to kick the gong when I am feelin' gay;
It's most unfortunate, I guess, his face was in the way.”
Then scratchin' of his snowy pow the Judge looked down severe,

Where bright wi' paint like plaster saint sat Violet de Vere.

Says he: “I'm going to impose a twenty dollar fine.”
Says Violet: “Your Honour, to your judgement I resign.
I realise I should not my agility reveal:
Next time I'll kick the Sheriff with my toe and not my heel.

I'm grateful to the Court because I'm not in put in the clink;
There's twenty plunks to pay my fine, - but now I come to think:
Judge, darlin' you've been owin, me five bucks for near a year:

Take fifteen, - there! We'll call it square.” said Violet de Vere.






-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 08-Sep-2011 at 18:34

Gather Ye Roses

Gather ye roses while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
A world where beauty fleets away
Is no world for denying.
Come lads and lasses, fall to play
Lose no more time in sighing

The very flowers you pluck to-day
To-morrow will be dying;
And all the flowers are crying,
And all the leaves have tongues to say,-
Gather ye roses while ye may. 
RL Stevenson


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 08-Sep-2011 at 22:38
Originally posted by Centrix Vigilis

Gather Ye Roses

Gather ye roses while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
A world where beauty fleets away
Is no world for denying.
Come lads and lasses, fall to play
Lose no more time in sighing

The very flowers you pluck to-day
To-morrow will be dying;
And all the flowers are crying,
And all the leaves have tongues to say,-
Gather ye roses while ye may.
RL Stevenson

There is an old Bulgarian song with very similar, almost the same lyrics, I wonder if it's translation from Stevenson.


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 08-Sep-2011 at 23:56
Emily Dickinson:

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.



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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 09-Sep-2011 at 00:43
Dancing With the Moon

I had a dance with the Moon on the clearest night
And I took her with me on the paths I used to pass
And I told her Dream and Rage, stories withhold
And I made her friend of mine, toll her new and old.

Just before the night did end she returned the coin
And she told me something that most people do not know -
That she is so annoyed that everyone knows
Only one of her many faces, on only one they pose

While the real she is hidden there in the dark
And that people find forbidding that she is so stark.
And the Moon wept on my shoulder like a little girl
That to her had been denied the freedom to run.
DQ


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 09-Sep-2011 at 00:54
Run

I took a Run, the wildest one, the wildest driven Run
I took it like I take a Knife, an Oath, or a Gun,
I took it like I take a Stand, a Promise, and myself
I took it very seriously, like a gift of Elves.

I took a Run, a Run on it, a Run under the Run
And I discovered that the Run is also made to drive
To drive like Madness, an Instinct, a Spasm or a Pain
To drive like from a  forgotten tune memories do rain.

I took a Run, I have the Run, I have to run with it.
I touch the Run, still on a run like a dynamite stick.
I took the Run, the Run is me, the Run is what it is
What I will be after it, will be later seen.
DQ


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 09-Sep-2011 at 19:30
Freedom

Freedom to Be in the Being
Freedom to Mean in the Meaning
Freedom to Run in the Night
Freedom to Fly in the Kite

Freedom to Pass and to Come
Freedom to Look at the Sun
Freedom to Try and to Meet
Freedom to Stay and to Beat

Freedom to Ride and to Row
Freedom to Bend and Arrow
Freedom to Dive and to Sink
Freedom to Dream and to Think

Freedom in Mind, Feet and Hands
Freedom of Crises and Pasts
Freedom, however it ends
Freedom is Priceless Event.
DQ



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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 10-Sep-2011 at 19:55
Sometimes

Sometimes it's worth the effort to let go
Sometimes it's easier to let it flow
Sometimes with nature - Nature is what Nature is
It's worth one's effort to release -

Like fishes in the water and the birds in air
Sometimes this is what take to get one there
Sometimes it's worth the manners to forgo
Sometimes it's easier to let it go

And seems that one one's nature comprehend
Then nature takes one to his end
Like fishes and water and the birds in air
It takes embracing Nature so it takes me there.


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


Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 13-Sep-2011 at 17:35

Listen not

Listen not with your ears

Listen from your heart
Seeing, use not your eyes,
Look from your soul
Love not with your heart
Love with your soul
Touch with yourself
Not with your hand
Taste with your soul
Not with your tongue
Believe with your being
And love with your all.

Chookie


-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 13-Sep-2011 at 18:52
Originally posted by Chookie

Listen not

Listen not with your ears

Listen from your heart
Seeing, use not your eyes,
Look from your soul
Love not with your heart
Love with your soul
Touch with yourself
Not with your hand
Taste with your soul
Not with your tongue
Believe with your being
And love with your all.

Chookie

I had said it befpre and I'll say it again - this is a good poem, Chookie, and a very soul-full one.Smile


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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 14-Sep-2011 at 10:07

Epitaph To a Dog

       Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains
               Of one
Who possessed Beauty
        Without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
  Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man
        Without his Vices.

The Price, which would be unmeaning flattery
          If inscribed over Human Ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 
          “Boatswain,” a Dog
Who was born at Newfoundland,
          May, 1803,
And died in Newstead Abbey,
          Nov. 18, 1808.
 
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown by glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And stories urns record that rests below.
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennoble but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on – it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one – and here he lies.

Lord Byron’s tribute to “Boatswain,” on a monument in the garden of Newstead Abbey.




-------------
"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'



Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 14-Sep-2011 at 18:46
Good poem, CV...and there is so much truth to it..as anyone who had/has a dog knows.

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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 14-Sep-2011 at 18:53
With 80 MHR Down the Road on a Kawasaki Vulcan '96

As I go into a Ride
/If Ride is what it ought to be/
My body tense, my sinews stretch
With every mile I duly hit

I thrust the Air, cut the Wind
My bearings get lost
And all I hear is my blood
That in my temples throbs,

And diving into the coming air
My arms are to receive
My thighs are bonded to the saddle
As the road down leaps.

And as the Speed is taking on
Then I begin to See
That not the Ride I'm Riding, but
The Ride is Riding me.
DQ



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


Posted By: graywolf
Date Posted: 15-Sep-2011 at 13:10
This is one I wrote a while back.
 
 
                                             
GRANDFATHER'S CHRISTMAS

BY JOE CAMPISI
It's Christmas in the 90's and
things just aren't the same,
I don't hear the laughter of Old
Saint Nick........and some won't
even call his name.

Jesus and Mary with wise men and
all, this year, had to be moved from
the lawn at City Hall.

So we talked to the children, the
old and the young, as the family
gathered......the story begun.

The story of Christ and how baby
Jesus was born.....and the good things
in life we all adorn.

I knew everything was alright
as I held my grandchildren so
very tight, they said Merry
Christmas Grandpa.....we love you,
good night.


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 15-Sep-2011 at 18:14
Watching "Hidalgo"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltn93pE3Qoc&feature=related - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltn93pE3Qoc&feature=related

Body on Fire
In the hot desert Air
Body on Fire
The Hottest Heat
Baking one's lips one's breathing Slips
Body on Fire
There is no Water there is no Rain
Body on Fire
Walking alone till one's brain is Gone
Body on Fire
Dune after dune, Nature in tune
Body on Fire
Mile after Mile, no end in sight
Body on Fire
And one realize so cold and bright-
There is no Win.
Body on Fire
When one's body burns
And one's brain combusts
Whatever is left in one's depth
Goes to the surface -
Forgotten words in maternal tongues,
Rejected pasts that still buried last,
Identities lost at any cost,
From one's deepest vaults they come like ghosts -
Prayer or curse,
Desperate burst,
Hunger and thirst.
Body on Fire
Can never returns where it was
The
Same.
DQ






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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 15-Sep-2011 at 20:59

"We Just Remember..."

1966
We just remember facts and actions,
To which our life presented us,
There are, amidst them, and inventions,
That kindly visit us sometimes. 

But once we see a day, the April’s,
We hear laughter, catch a sight….
Reminiscences of our senses! – 
They’re the inciters of our heart 

That force it to palpate for hours,
Or promptly fly up to the skies,
And they’re saved not by thoughts of ours,
But by our hands and lips and eyes.

Konstanin Vanshenkin


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 16-Sep-2011 at 15:54
Druids

Brothers to the Sun
Sisters to the Moon

Stewards of the lore
Guardians of the land
Keepers of the Earth

Chookie


-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Nick1986
Date Posted: 18-Sep-2011 at 19:05

Three rings for elven-kings under the sky
Seven for the dwarf-lords in their halls of stone
Nine for mortal men doomed to die
One for the dark lord on his dark throne
In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie
One ring to rule them all
One ring to find them
One ring to bring them all
And in the darkness bind them

-------------
Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 19-Sep-2011 at 19:06
Words

The words are symbols, sound, letters
And so much more than names -
The have the meaning and the feeling
Of the things they carry -

The Word for Sun is light-projecting
When I say it so
The word for Heat feels so burning
When rolling down my throat,

The word for Turn is sharply turning
In my mouth tightly wrapped,
The Word for Pain withers me
As I try to stop it.

As the words go on and do
What their magic carries
I beware say you Name
That in my depth is Buried

Lest it stop my heart in a mid-beat
And all my air gulps
Lest I can't lift up myself
Under it's load of love.
DQ



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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 20-Sep-2011 at 13:12
Hands

Blood like rubies grace my hands
In a thousands rings
Startled I removed the skin
To reveal within -

Mutely gaze upon upon my hands
Full with dead birds -
Thousands of beaten dreams -
Corpses with no reverse

Scream with gaping, with cut throats
In grotesque remark
Their glassy eyes still open
Frozen, opaque, stark...

What a strength in human hands
To carry such a load
Day after day, mile after mile
Heavy down the Road.
DQ







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


Posted By: Nick1986
Date Posted: 20-Sep-2011 at 19:02
Some beautiful poems there Don. Did you write them?

-------------
Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 20-Sep-2011 at 19:18
Originally posted by Nick1986

Some beautiful poems there Don. Did you write them?

Those that are signed DQ, yes.
Thank you, Nick and Dragon! It's nice to have feedback.Smile


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


Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 21-Sep-2011 at 17:49
Abdul the Bulbul Emir (Percy French)

The sons of the Prophet were hardy and bold
And quite unaccustom'd to fear.
But the bravest of all, at least so I am told—
Was Abdul the Bulbul Amir.

If you wanted a man to encourage the van
Or to harass the foe from the rear
Or to storm a redoubt, you had but to shout
For Abdul the Bulbul Amir.

There were heroes in plenty, good men known to fame
In the army then led by the Czar.
But none of more fame than a man by the name
Of Ivan Petrovski Skivar.

He could imitate Irving, tell fortunes with cards
He could play on the Spanish guitar
In fact quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Petrovski Skivar.

One day this bold Russian had shouldered his gun,
And with his most cynical sneer,
Was looking for fun when he happened to run
Upon Abdul the Bulbul Amir.

"Young man," said Bul Bul,"is existence so dull
That you're anxious to end your career?
For, infidel, know you have trod on the toe
Of Abdul the Bulbul Amir.

"So take your last look upon sunshine and brook.
Send your regrets to the Czar.
By which I imply you are going to die
Mr. Ivan Petrovski Skavar."

Then the brave Mameluke drew his trusty skibouk.
Crying, "Allah, il Allah! Allah!"
And on slaughter intent, he ferociously went
For Ivan Petrovski Skavar.

On a stone by the banks where the Danube doth roll,
Inscribed in characters clear,
Is "Stranger, remember to pray for the soul
Of Abdul the Bulbul Amir."

A Muscovite maiden her sad vigil keeps
In her home by the cold Northern Star
And the name that she murmurs in vain as she weeps,
Is Ivan Petrovski Skavar.




-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 23-Sep-2011 at 16:32
Who Stands for the dead? (Chookie)

Who stands for the dead

Who fell in your wars?
Who stands for the dead
Who believed in your lies
Who stands for the dead?
Who did no-one harm
Who stands for the dead?
Who fell in their millions
Who stands for the dead?
Who died of your greed
Who stands for the dead?
Who died in their homes
Who stands for the dead?
Who died of your bombs
Who stands for the dead?
Who died by your mines
Who stands for the dead?
Who fell in your wars?
Who stands for the dead?

We stand for the dead

Who are disgusted by war
We stand for the dead
Who despise all your greed
We stand for the dead
Although we may fall
We stand for the dead
We who remain,
We stand for the dead.


-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 23-Sep-2011 at 22:06
Adoration

Let me adore your face with my eyes
Let me adore you
Let me adore your skin with my palms
Let me adore you
Let me adore your figure and voice
Let me adore you
Let me adore you in words on my choice
Let me adore you
Let me adore you in colors and roses
Let me adore you

Let me  adore you till all days are gone
And my eyes are closed.
DQ


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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 24-Sep-2011 at 04:07
The Weakling
 
I died in sin and forthwith went to Hell;
I made myself at home upon the coals
Where seas of flame break on the cinder shoals.
Till Satan came and said with angry yell,
"You there - divulge what route by which you fell."
"I spent my youth among the flowing bowls,
"Wasted my life with women of dark souls,
"Died brothel-fighting - drunk on muscatel."

Said he, "My friend, you've been directed wrong:
"You've naught to recommend you for our feasts -
"Like factory owners, brokers, elders, priests;
"The air for you! This place is for the strong!
"Then as I pondered, minded to rebel,
He laughed and forthwith kicked me out of Hell.

RE Howard


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 26-Sep-2011 at 14:56
Invictus
OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
                   
 
                   William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 26-Sep-2011 at 16:30
That's one of my all time favorite poems, CentrixSmile. Thank you for posting it.

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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 26-Sep-2011 at 16:37
Where All Winds Meet

All winds meet
Where all directions do -

In the middle of time and space
In the middle on knowledge and race
In the middle of all we are
In the middle of close and far

In the middle of life and death
In the middle of work and theft
In the middle of life's years course
In the middle of everyday choice

All winds meet in that point
After which there is no recoil.
DQ



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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 26-Sep-2011 at 16:40
Originally posted by Don Quixote

That's one of my all time favorite poems, CentrixSmile. Thank you for posting it.
 
 
Well and so you would like WB Yeats Sailing to Byzantium. I posted it in the Celtic isles thread started by my old pard...Míċeál Ó Coileáin.
 
 
Big smile


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 26-Sep-2011 at 18:24

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

By William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core

-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 26-Sep-2011 at 19:02
Originally posted by Centrix Vigilis

Originally posted by Don Quixote

That's one of my all time favorite poems, CentrixSmile. Thank you for posting it.
 
 
Well and so you would like WB Yeats Sailing to Byzantium. I posted it in the Celtic isles thread started by my old pard...Míċeál Ó Coileáin.
 
 
Big smile

I know it...it's definitely a good addition to the forum. I'll take a look at the Celtic thread, thanks for the heads-upSmile. What is it's name and where am I to look for it?


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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 26-Sep-2011 at 21:55
My error. Look here. http://www.allempires.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=30293&KW=&PID=654922#654922 - http://www.allempires.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=30293&KW=&PID=654922#654922

-------------
"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'



Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 27-Sep-2011 at 02:13
Originally posted by Centrix Vigilis

My error. Look here. http://www.allempires.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=30293&KW=&PID=654922#654922 - http://www.allempires.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=30293&KW=&PID=654922#654922

Thanks, CentrixSmile! I would never be able to find it , I was looking for a thread that includes "Celtic" in it's name.


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 27-Sep-2011 at 02:30
...
So many years, so many tears - tears of hate
So many whens, so many whys, so much to bet
So many things said, so many regrets
So many things done blind on the run
So many ,so many cut ties ,so many heard lies
So much desperation, so much desolation
Procrastination, deep isolation
Hard goings further a step short on murder
So many bites, overdone rites and broken flights
So many lost kites and half-won fights.

After all this can I still be me?
I don't want redemption I don't want forgiveness
Just want to be free
Of it all.
DQ



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


Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 29-Sep-2011 at 16:12

The Ballad of the Inchcape Rock (Robert Southey)

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she could be,

Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;

So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;

On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.


When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;

And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;

The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,
And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;

Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck,
And he fix’d his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;

His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat,

And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock
Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away,

He scour’d the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder’d store,

He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky

They cannot see the Sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,

At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,

So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.”

Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore.”

Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.”

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, —

Oh Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!”

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;

He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,

The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,

The Devil below was ringing his knell.


-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 30-Sep-2011 at 12:47
Alas Chookie... not many remember the 'Lake Poet' types...the poor heathen, intellectually deprived bastards....
 
but I do.Wink
 
Besides it's good warrior type stuff.Thumbs Up


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 30-Sep-2011 at 12:48
In fact, puts me in mind...on my day off... of this:
 
 
                                                       The Ghost Kings

 
 
The ghost kings are marching; the midnight knows their tread,
From the distant, stealthy planets of the dim, unstable dead;
There are whisperings on the night-winds and the shuddering stars have fled.

A ghostly trumpet echoes from a barren mountainhead;
Through the fen the wandering witch-lights gleam like phantom arrows sped;
There is silence in the valleys and the moon is rising red.

The ghost kings are marching down the ages' dusty maze;
The unseen feet are tramping through the moonlight's pallid haze,
Down the hollow clanging stairways of a million yesterdays.

The ghost kings are marching, where the vague moon-vapor creeps,
While the night-wind to their coming, like a thund'rous herald sweeps;
They are clad in ancient grandeur, but the world, unheeding, sleeps.

by Robert Ervin Howard

 


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 30-Sep-2011 at 18:54

The Blessing Tree 

The blessing tree speaks loud to me,
The older gods are there today,
For never have they gone away,
The blessing trees, the sacred wells,
The cloth, the coin, the broken sword,
With wine and bread, the holy word,
The blessing tree, which is no tree,
The sacred wells which cure all ills,
The coin is given in thanks to god,
The cloth to honour the bounteous earth,
The sword to calm the fiery heart,
The wine and bread, for ancient worth,
And offered all to the sacred earth.

(Chookie)



-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 06-Oct-2011 at 14:07
The Widow of Glencoe (W. E. Aytoun)

Do not lift him from the bracken,
Leave him lying where he fell—
Better bier ye cannot fashion:
None beseems him half so well
As the bare and broken heather,
And the hard and trampled sod,
Whence his angry soul ascended
To the judgment-seat of God!
Winding-sheet we cannot give him—
Seek no mantle for the dead,
Save the cold and spotless covering
Showered from heaven upon his head.
Leave his broadsword, as we found it,
Bent and broken with the blow,
That, before he died, avenged him
On the foremost of the foe.
Leave the blood upon his bosom—
Wash not off that sacred stain:
Let it stiffen on the tartan,
Let his wounds unclosed remain,
Till the day when he shall show them
At the throne of God on high,
When the murderer and the murdered

Meet before their Judge's eye!
Nay—ye should not weep, my children!
Leave it to the faint and weak;
Sobs are but a woman's weapon—
Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
Weep not, children of Macdonald!
Weep not thou, his orphan heir—
Not in shame, but stainless honour,
Lies thy slaughtered father there.
Weep not—but when years are over,
And thine arm is strong and sure,
And thy foot is swift and steady
On the mountain and the muir—
Let thy heart be hard as iron,
And thy wrath as fierce as fire,
Till the hour when vengeance cometh
For the race that slew thy sire;
Till in deep and dark Glenlyon
Rise a louder shriek of woe
Than at midnight, from their eyrie,
Scared the eagles of Glencoe;
Louder than the screams that mingled
With the howling of the blast,
When the murderer's steel was clashing,
And the fires were rising fast;
When thy noble father bounded
To the rescue of his men,
And the slogan of our kindred
Pealed throughout the startled glen;
When the herd of frantic women
Stumbled through the midnight snow,
With their fathers' houses blazing
And their dearest dead below.
Oh, the horror of the tempest,
As the flashing drift was blown,
Crimsoned with the conflagration,
And the roofs went thundering down!
Oh, the prayers—the prayers and curses
That together winged their flight
From the maddened hearts of many
Through that long and woeful night!
Till the fires began to dwindle,
And the shots grew faint and few,
And we heard the foeman's challenge
Only in a far halloo;
Till the silence once more settled
O'er the gorges of the glen,
Broken only by the Cona
Plunging through its naked den.
Slowly from the mountain-summit
Was the drifting veil withdrawn,
And the ghastly valley glimmered
In the gray December dawn.
Better had the morning never
Dawned upon our dark despair!
Black amidst the common whiteness
Rose the spectral ruins there:
But the sight of these was nothing
More than wrings the wild dove's breast,
When she searches for her offspring
Round the relics of her nest.
For in many a spot the tartan
Peered above the wintry heap,
Marking where a dead Macdonald
Lay within his frozen sleep.
Tremblingly we scooped the covering
From each kindred victim's head,
And the living lips were burning
On the cold ones of the dead.
And I left them with their dearest—
Dearest charge had everyone—
Left the maiden with her lover,
Left the mother with her son.
I alone of all was mateless—
Far more wretched I than they,
For the snow would not discover
Where my lord and husband lay.
But I wandered up the valley
Till I found him lying low,
With the gash upon his bosom,
And the frown upon his brow—
Till I found him lying murdered
Where he wooed me long ago.

Woman's weakness shall not shame me;
Why should I have tears to shed?
Could I rain them down like water,
O my hero, on thy head,
Could the cry of lamentation
Wake thee from thy silent sleep,
Could it set thy heart a-throbbing,
It were mine to wail and weep.
But I will not waste my sorrow,
Lest the Campbell women say
That the daughters of Clanranald
Are as weak and frail as they.
I had wept thee hadst thou fallen,
Like our fathers, on thy shield,
When a host of English foemen
Camped upon a Scottish field;
I had mourned thee hadst thou perished
With the foremost of his name,
When the valiant and the noble
Died around the dauntless Græme.
But I will not wrong thee, husband!
With my unavailing cries,
Whilst thy cold and mangled body,
Stricken by the traitor, lies;
Whilst he counts the gold and glory
That this hideous night has won,
And his heart is big with triumph
At the murder he has done.
Other eyes than mine shall glisten,
Other hearts be rent in twain,
Ere the heathbells on thy hillock
Wither in the autumn rain.
Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest,
And I'll veil my weary head,
Praying for a place beside thee,
Dearer than my bridal-bed:
And I'll give thee tears, my husband,
If the tears remain to me,
When the widows of the foemen
Cry the coronach for thee.





-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 06-Oct-2011 at 15:16

                 The Ride

Seven there were when they rode that road

Six were young and one was old.

 

Across broken and barren blasts of waste

Seven long days with no slack in pace.

 
Until finally there on the desert floor

Lie the opening to a fabled door.

With a word the locks were sprung

And with a great shout they went down the run.

Great horses snorting and and stamping of feet

Into the gloom they do leap.

Seven there were on that ghastly ride

demons and wraiths wailing at every side.

''Courage men’’ the old one said

''for they be not.. but the broken dead.’’

And so axes and swords and shields did sing

A song of war.. Ah.. how it did ring.

Till finally they stood before the prize

But lo one more fight before them lie.

The tale tis to grim to state that fight

But when it was done… it was the full of night.

Now back up that grim and rocky run

Their work.. hard and valiant.. now near done.

Into the night they leaped from the door

But where there had been seven.. now only four.

Far below they could hear the keens and the sounds

coming up that well.

So one must stand.. that the others live to tell.

With a smile the old one drew his great sword

and with a nod to each..strode back down into hell.

Back again into that foul dank well.

For long they could hear his mighty shouts

and of the ring of his steel.. there were no doubts.

And then in the final silence

with a groan.. the door gave in.

Collapsing and swallowing the demon hoard within.

And so they rode away into the break of day

Each heart was heavy with no words to say.

And now to her tower they do ride

to tell of those who fought and died.

 

And lo..on her stand by a window bright

Stands the prize… for which they fought all night

More fair and beauteous then beaten gold

Stands one.. blood red.. crystal

rose.

 

 

 



-------------
"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'



Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 06-Oct-2011 at 19:28
Revenge

There is no sweet revenge -
Revenge is always bitter,
The bitterest when it comes
To replace something sweetest

The sharpest where it was softest
Before it come it had to come about
And hurts the most the one soul whom
It was suppose to help around.

There is no Knife, no Rope, no Gun
To kill one's soul so rending
As well as one's Revenge will
Avenge the one revenging.
DQ


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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 07-Oct-2011 at 00:48
Love is Blue
Blue, blue, my world is blue
Blue is my world now I'm without you
Gray, gray, my life is gray
Cold is my heart since you went away

Red, red, my eyes are red
Crying for you alone in my bed
Green, green, my jealous heart
I doubted you and now we're apart

When we met how the bright sun shone
Then love died, now the rainbow is gone

Black, black, the nights I've known
Longing for you so lost and alone
 
Paul Mauriat


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 08-Oct-2011 at 01:08
Death
Is death cold? Or divine.
Will it steal or free your mind.
 
Long dark night descends
brittle, cold and pale the light,
Will force of arms prove the right.
 
Echos of shrieks and chittering things
Who comes before and the sun does bring.
 
Run.. run.. feverish hare
for the huntsman's pack would bring you there.
 
Climb the cairn and pray for day
lest they come and take you away.
 
An elf, a dwarf and a tall somber man,
climb the cairn and take their stand.
 
The howls are mournful they come so near,
pray for the light you hold so dear.
 
Out now drawn are the swords,
three will stand against a dreadful hoard.
 
Long is the slashing and the loss of blood,
slick with sweat and gore now is the mud.
 
But hark! the east.. the sun doth climb
and weary arms now recline.
 
Perhaps....tis cold perhaps divine,
but death, this morn, on you will not dine.
 
Is death cold? Or divine.
Will it steal or free your mind.
 
 


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 08-Oct-2011 at 14:15
Ah most sublime.
And stop that nonsense about humble scratchings.
My stuff is just the shades of echoes, of transistory memories, of days personal, gone by transposed upon a fantasy world. It is not intended to be of signficant emotive value for any other but me. Nor is it intended to make a grand statement of the realities of the world other then my perception of those former days. Nor am I particular concerned  about critical review, style, prose errors and observations of those who edit such stuff.
 
Personally the only poets and poetry I have ever enjoyed is the melancholy and sad and individual heroic type.. (With barely the hint of a happy ending because that shit doesn't exsist other then what we individually percieve).. that reflects the actual author's life and perceptions. And I don't give a damn whether it was liked or valued by anyone other then me.
 
You others while perhaps seeing the same... write from your hearts...for your hearts. I think to help mend other's hearts.
 
I write.. as if it were the downward sweep of an axe crashing into the brain of my foe.
 
And who knows...perhaps...it is the same.Big smile


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 17-Oct-2011 at 16:33

La Belle Dame Sans Merci


O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.


O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.


I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.


I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.


I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.


I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery’s song.


She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

I love thee true’.


She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.


And there she lullèd me asleep,

And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—

The latest dream I ever dreamt

On the cold hill side.


I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

Thee hath in thrall!’


I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill’s side.


And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

(John Keats)



-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 22-Oct-2011 at 11:58
There is a tavern in the town.
Tis where we lay our money down.
And when were all done.. drinking at the bar.
We all go out and puke on our boots.
 
(Author unknown)


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 22-Oct-2011 at 14:31
Originally posted by Centrix Vigilis

There is a tavern in the town.
Tis where we lay our money down.
And when were all done.. drinking at the bar.
We all go out and puke on our boots.
 
(Author unknown)

LOL
Who is doing the cleaning?




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


Posted By: Centrix Vigilis
Date Posted: 26-Oct-2011 at 02:35
There once was a cat named Fritz
Who went to a bar and got blitzed.
Later that night as he walked out of sight
He got hit by a truck and that was goodnight.
 


-------------
"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'



Posted By: Chookie
Date Posted: 27-Oct-2011 at 16:57
The Freedom come a' ye

Roch the wind in the clear days dawin'
Blaws the cloods heelster gowdy ow'r the bay
But there's mair nor a roch wind blawin'
Through the great glen o' the warld the day.
It's a thocht that will gar oor rottans
A' they rogues that gang gallus fresh and gay
Tak the road an' seek ither loanins
For their ill ploys tae sport an' play

Nae mair will the bonnie callants
Mairch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw,
Nor wee weans frae pit-heid an' clachan
Mourn the ships sailing doon the Broomielaw.
Broken families in lands we've herriet
Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair.
Black and white, ane til ither mairriet
Mak' the vile barracks o' their masters bare.

So come all ye at hame wi' freedom
Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom
In your hoose a' the bairns o' Adam
Can find breid, barley bree an' painted room.
When MacLean meets wi's freens in Springburn
A' the roses an' geans will turn tae bloom
And a black boy frae yont Nyanga
Dings the fell gallows o' the burghers doon.


(Hamish Henderson)


-------------
For money you did what guns could not do.........


Posted By: Nick1986
Date Posted: 01-Nov-2011 at 21:08
Alive without breath
As cold as death
Never thirsty, always drinking
Clad in mail but never clinking


-------------
Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!


Posted By: tjadams
Date Posted: 05-Nov-2011 at 10:26

Here is US President Abraham Lincoln's favorite poem, "Mortality" by William Knox.

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud

 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave

 He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

 

 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

 Be scattered around, and together be laid;

 And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

 Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie...

It is a long poem, so I"ll just post a link to the entire piece here:

http://showcase.netins.net/web/creative/lincoln/education/knox.htm - http://showcase.netins.net/web/creative/lincoln/education/knox.htm




Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 05-Dec-2011 at 03:03
True Love

True love. Is it normal
is it serious, is it practical?
What does the world get from two people
who exist in a world of their own?

Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason,
drawn randomly from millions but convinced
it had to happen this way - in reward for what?
For nothing.
The light descends from nowhere.
Why on these two and not on others?
Doesn't this outrage justice? Yes it does.
Doesn't it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles,
and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.

Look at the happy couple.
Couldn't they at least try to hide it,
fake a little depression for their friends' sake?
Listen to them laughing - its an insult.
The language they use - deceptively clear.
And their little celebrations, rituals,
the elaborate mutual routines -
it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back!

It's hard even to guess how far things might go
if people start to follow their example.
What could religion and poetry count on?
What would be remembered? What renounced?
Who'd want to stay within bounds?

True love. Is it really necessary?
Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence,
like a scandal in Life's highest circles.
Perfectly good children are born without its help.
It couldn't populate the planet in a million years,
it comes along so rarely.

Let the people who never find true love
keep saying that there's no such thing.

Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.


Wislawa Szymborska


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 09-Dec-2011 at 02:16
Enigmas by Pablo Neruda
You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with
his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this.
You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent
bell? What is it waiting for?
I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.
You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms?
Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.
You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal,
and I reply by describing
how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies.
You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers,
which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides?
Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on
the crystal architecture
of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now?
You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean
spines?
The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks?
The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out
in the deep places like a thread in the water?

I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its
jewel boxes
is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure,
and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the
petal
hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light
and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall
from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl.

I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead
of human eyes, dead in those darknesses,
of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes
on the timid globe of an orange.

I walked around as you do, investigating
the endless star,
and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/pablo_neruda/poems/15724# - - http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/pablo_neruda/poems/15724# - - http://www.addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=250&winname=addthis&pub=fpap&source=tbx-250&lng=en-US&s=digg&url=http%3A%2F%2Ffamouspoetsandpoems.com%2Fpoets%2Fpablo_neruda%2Fpoems%2F15724&title=Enigmas%20-%20Poem%20by%20Pablo%20Neruda&ate=AT-fpap/-/-/4ee1b57d2a474d34/1&frommenu=1&uid=4ee1b57d0cdcc576&ct=1&pre=http%3A%2F%2Ffamouspoetsandpoems.com%2Fpoets%2Fpablo_neruda%2Fpoems&tt=0 - - http://www.addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=250&winname=addthis&pub=fpap&source=tbx-250&lng=en-US&s=live&url=http%3A%2F%2Ffamouspoetsandpoems.com%2Fpoets%2Fpablo_neruda%2Fpoems%2F15724&title=Enigmas%20-%20Poem%20by%20Pablo%20Neruda&ate=AT-fpap/-/-/4ee1b57d2a474d34/2&frommenu=1&uid=4ee1b57db3026584&ct=1&pre=http%3A%2F%2Ffamouspoetsandpoems.com%2Fpoets%2Fpablo_neruda%2Fpoems&tt=0 - - http://www.addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=250&winname=addthis&pub=fpap&source=tbx-250&lng=en-US&s=google&url=http%3A%2F%2Ffamouspoetsandpoems.com%2Fpoets%2Fpablo_neruda%2Fpoems%2F15724&title=Enigmas%20-%20Poem%20by%20Pablo%20Neruda&ate=AT-fpap/-/-/4ee1b57d2a474d34/3&frommenu=1&uid=4ee1b57de220b97b&ct=1&pre=http%3A%2F%2Ffamouspoetsandpoems.com%2Fpoets%2Fpablo_neruda%2Fpoems&tt=0 - - http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/pablo_neruda/poems/15724# - - http://www.addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=250&winname=addthis&pub=fpap&source=tbx-250&lng=en-US&s=delicious&url=http%3A%2F%2Ffamouspoetsandpoems.com%2Fpoets%2Fpablo_neruda%2Fpoems%2F15724&title=Enigmas%20-%20Poem%20by%20Pablo%20Neruda&ate=AT-fpap/-/-/4ee1b57d2a474d34/4&frommenu=1&uid=4ee1b57d367c7a42&ct=1&pre=http%3A%2F%2Ffamouspoetsandpoems.com%2Fpoets%2Fpablo_neruda%2Fpoems&tt=0 - -


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 09-Dec-2011 at 02:32
Expressions

How to express what I cannot express, I wonder.
In the night or and the day, what colors shall I bring to life
To give a shape and nuance of my thoughts
So I be understood and my resolve to tell my soul away
Would at last exist to bear fruit?

What words can express a feeling, touching,
The minute of which the memory is lost?
What metaphors and verbal combinations
Will be suited as to clothe my world in flesh
And make it real, palpable, alive?

I harvested my words from everywhere I could,
I summoned them from different realms
Of thought and dreams, of songs, and myths and curses,
I called them and then mixed them in a liquor
That was supposed to measure me in full.

But did it do that? Or it left me empty, mislead,
And lonely to look at my own defeat -
My image like in some enchanted mirror
Not what I see, but with its lines deformed
And bringing me to cry like child deceived?

I wonder. I admit my own failure.
My words from me run forward and bore
Some strange result and even stronger pain
Where I didn't want to place it...not...again.
How to express what I cannot express....I wonder.
DQ



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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 10-Dec-2011 at 02:35
A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Alan Poe



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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 13-Dec-2011 at 01:03
Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.

Pablo Neruda


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 14-Dec-2011 at 23:56
Emily Dickinson:

THERE is a solitude of space,
A solitude of sea,
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be,
Compared with that profounder site,        5
That polar privacy,
A Soul admitted to Itself:
Finite Infinity.



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


Posted By: medenaywe
Date Posted: 18-Dec-2011 at 17:23
I prefer: Metric talks without a rhymes,
the words with soul of beast,that prays with voice of lamb,
Till dawn is born and sparkle crowns
ordinary birth of day.
NaDeNajVe.
 


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 21-Dec-2011 at 18:56
Originally posted by medenaywe

I prefer: Metric talks without a rhymes,
the words with soul of beast,that prays with voice of lamb,
Till dawn is born and sparkle crowns
ordinary birth of day.
NaDeNajVe.
 

Good poem, man - the imagery is unexpected and strong - "words with souls of beasts"  - I wish I came up with it.


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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 25-Dec-2011 at 19:50
Come to me, my birds, my children,
My words, my lilies in the dark,
For now is time - breaking time
In which I need your spark.

Come to me, my snowflake perfect,
My desires, sweet and pure,
Come to me, and helps me stand
Under the slanders and the pain.

One more vicious disappoinment,
One more bullet - what's the score?
One more time the light that wanders
One more time will have to roam.

Come to me, and lend me wings
Come to me and bring me spring
Come to me, I you evoke
Come to stop this cruel talk.

Cover me in blanket soft
Make me fly upon rooftops
One more time conserve my soul
From the meanness words that pour.
DQ




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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 28-Dec-2011 at 15:34
I see this poem as a political one - Akhmatova used ways to self-censure her poems lest she loses more than them  in the Stalinist times she lived in.

Anna Akhmatova - And the Last

She was o’er us like a star o’er an ocean, 
Seeking the last, decuman wave with beams,
You gave her name of woe and commotion,
And ne’er – of gladness of our sacred dreams.

At day, she circled over us – a swallow;
A smile – she blossomed on our scarlet lips…
At night, she choked both us, the hollow,
With her cold hand – in different cities’ deeps.

Not touched by single of all glorifications,
Forgetful of the sins’ existing host,
Bend o’er our sleepless bed-heads, with dark passion,
She murmurs verses, desperate and cursed.






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


Posted By: Don Quixote
Date Posted: 27-Jan-2012 at 02:25
Mahnaz Badihian

Zayandeh Rud

Where am I from?
That my dress smells
Like the tarragon from my
Father's garden,
And my cheeks are as red
As the flower of a
Pomegranate tree.

Where am I from?
That my hands are the
Stem of a delicate tomato plant,
And the taste in my mouth
Is the taste of pussywillows
In my mother's tea.

Where am I from?
That all my dreams
Are blue, the same
Color as the Caspian Sea.

Where am I from?
That in spring, the
Apple tree buds
In me.

You know, you know
I am from that proud
River,
Zayandeh Rud,
From the tall mountain,
Alborz.
From the land that
Reaches to Zoroaster:
The first poet on earth.

Originally published by http://www.mahmag.org/ - www.mahmag.org



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