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Gregory Christiano Poem
Author’s Introduction - A word about Minot’s Ledge Lighthouse:
The Minot’s Ledge lighthouse, built 1850, lying off the southeastern chop of
Boston Bay, was the first lighthouse built in the U. S. that was not protected by
exposure to the fury of ocean storms. It was, then unfinished, in the shape of an
egg-shell painted red and supported by iron pillars. The first keeper, Isaac
Dunham, quit after 10 months citing how unsafe the structure was (swaying 2
feet in each direction in a storm). His fears were well founded, for in April 1851, a
colossal storm struck the New England coast. The lighthouse was toppled and
swept away, and the two attendants, Joseph Antoine and Joseph Wilson, were
killed.
The following day only a few bent pilings were found on the rock. This tragedy set
the standard for the construction of more solid structures using granite blocks for
greater support and a new light was built by June, 1860.
To this day, legend has it, that in dark and stormy weather, sailors hear a voice
coming from Minot’s Light crying in Portuguese (the nationality of one of the
deceased keepers – Joseph Antoine) – “Stay away!”
The Ill-Fated Lighthouse
The towering light that threw
Its friendly beams afar
Over the foaming waves,
The sailor’s guiding star,
Is quench’d – and darkness glooms
Where late it bless’d his sight,
As homeward bound he came
In the dark hour of night.
The thundering surges swept
Over the rocky bed,
From which the lighthouse rear’d
Aloft its flaming head.
And lo! They bore away
In that mad fearful hour,
The work that man had made –
The tempest’s rightful dower
And yet a richer freight
The heaving billows bore,
Than wreck of perished Light!
For tossing to the shore
The drench’d and lifeless forms
Of youthful dead there were,
Two brave and manly hearts
That sadly perish’d there!
Farewell ye faithful ones!
Your memory shall live,
While feeling hearts remain,
Pity’s sweet drops to give,
Or any to recount
The terrors of that night,
When the drear sea engulf’d
The hapless beacon light.
And you, ye rushing waves!
Sweep – foaming, sweep along,
And ever as ye go,
Lift high your noisy song;
For thou, remorseless sea!
Maketh all things thine own!
Then send aloft your tune,
And madly thunder on.
Copyright © Gregory Christiano | Year Posted 2005
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Gregory Christiano Poem
I can open this black foot-trunk,
Look, this is the key! I found
a few old letters
Which I kept to comfort me.
Yes, that pocket-watch is quaint
and ancient;
But I left it there with the ring,
And took that tiny Portrait
Which hangs by a crimson string.
I have never opened that foot-trunk
Since, many long years ago;
I left it there in solitude
To store things I used to know,
But I came back to see the Portrait:
I wonder if I can trace
A look of that smiling person
Left now as a faded face?
It was like me once; but
I remember
The weary, relentless years,
And life, with its fierce brief
tempests
And its long, long rain of tears.
Is it strange to call it my Portrait?
I now smile, for well I may
To think of what I was
And of what I am today.
How that young heart would
have pitied
Me now - if his dreams
had shown
A quiet and weary man I am
With all his illusions flown.
It is strange; but life's currents
drift us
So surely and swiftly on,
That we scarcely notice the
changes
And how many things have gone!
And forget, while today absorbs us,
How old mysteries are unsealed;
How the old, old ties are loosened,
And the old, old wounds are healed.
And we say that our life is
fleeting
Like a story that time has told;
But we fancy that we - we only -
Are just what we were of old.
So now and then, it is wisdom
To gaze, as I do today,
At that half-forgotten relic
Of a time that has passed away.
The very look of that Portrait,
The memories that seem to
cling
To those fragile and faded
letters
And the pocket-watch and the ring.
If they only stirred in my spirit
Forgotten pleasure and pain, -
Why, memory is often bitter,
And almost always in vain.
But the contrast of bygone hours
Comes to tear a veil away -
And I marvel to see the stranger
Who is living in me today!
Copyright © Gregory Christiano | Year Posted 2005
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Gregory Christiano Poem
With breathless haste and trembling hope
Comes April's long awaited day.
Flannels fitted, cleats are cleared.
Bats all polished, heroes cheered.
The rosters set, the lineups made.
Dispel all such reproachful pain,
Of past defeats, these thoughts remain,
Avenge those days with plans well laid.
Green pastures accent early mists;
High skies with soaring hearts abound.
Impatient folk with childish joy
In this Cathedral gather 'round.
The banners flapping overhead
To worship at the shrine of sport
As music from the organ run
To see a legacy is won.
Appease the gods with humble prayer
To bless this grand auspicious day!
With golden echoes sweet shall call
The anthem to begin the play.
"Play Ball!" The shout goes out to all.
Ten thousand voices rise and fall.
The spirits lift to heaven's gate
To root and share a common fate!
Copyright © Gregory Christiano | Year Posted 2005
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Gregory Christiano Poem
Through the blue and frosty heavens
Far-off stars were shining bright;
Glistening lamps throughout the City
Almost matched their gleaming light;
While the winter snow as lying,
And the winter winds were sighing,
Long ago, one frozen night.
In one house was dim and darkened;
Gloom and sickness and despair,
Dwelling in the gilded chamber,
Creeping up the marble stair,
Even stilled the voice of mourning -
For a child lay dying there.
Silken curtains fell around him,
Velvet carpets hushed the tread,
Many costly toys were lying,
All unheeded by his bed;
And his tangled golden ringlets
Were on downy pillows spread.
The skill of that mighty City
To save one little life was vain -
One little thread from being broken,
One fatal word from being spoken;
Nay, his very mother's pain,
And the mighty love within her,
Could not give him health again.
So she knelt there, still, beside him,
She alone with strength to smile,
Promising that he should suffer
No more in a little while,
Murmuring tender song and story
Weary hours to beguile.
So came an angel, slowly rising,
Spread his wings, and through the air
Bore the child and, while he held him,
To his heart with loving care,
Placed a branch of crimson roses
Tenderly beside him there.
While, with tender love, the angel,
Leaving o'er the little nest,
In his arms the sick child folding,
Laid him gently on his breast.
Sobs and wailings told the mother
That her darling was at rest.
In the churchyard of that City
Rose a tomb of marble rare,
Decked, as soon as Spring awakened,
With her buds and blossoms fair -
And a humble grave beside it, -
No one knew who rested there.
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Copyright © Gregory Christiano | Year Posted 2005
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Gregory Christiano Poem
I have nothing to think of and nothing to do;
I'll sing a song about nothing to you.
If nothing will please you, it's nothing to me,
The trouble is nothing, as you will agree.
I can give you nothing in verse or in prose,
For nothing, you know, cannot make many foes.
Nothing is good when there's nothing to pay;
And nothing is heard when there's nothing to say.
We'd have nothing to love where there's nothing to hate,
There'd be nothing to dream of or dreams to await.
Where there's nothing right, there'd be nothing but wrong;
So if nothing will please you, I'll move right along!
Copyright © Gregory Christiano | Year Posted 2005
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