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Scott Robinson Poem
The laughter of women sets fire
to the Halls of Injustice
and the false evidence burns
to a beautiful white lightness
It rattles the Chambers of Congress
and forces the windows wide open
so the fatuous speeches can fly out
The laughter of women wipes the mist
from the spectacles of the old;
it infects them with a happy flu
and they laugh as if they were young again
Prisoners held in underground cells
imagine that they see daylight
when they remember the laughter of women
It runs across water that divides,
and reconciles two unfriendly shores
like flares that signal the news to each other
What a language it is, the laughter of women,
high-flying and subversive.
Long before law and scripture
we heard the laughter, we understood freedom
Copyright © Scott Robinson | Year Posted 2014
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Scott Robinson Poem
STILL I love to rhyme, and still more, rhyming, to wander
Far from the commoner way;
Old-time trills and falls by the hill-side still do I ponder,
as my strides coursing through the streaming waters,
Dreaming to-morrow to-day.
Come here, come, revive me, Sun-God, teach me, Apollo,
Measures descanted before;
Since in timeless verses, I must follow,
Prints in the marbles of ancient folk-lore.
Still strange, strange, they sound in old-young raiment invested,
Songs for the brain to forget -
Young song-birds elate to grave old temples be-nested
Piping and chirruping yet.
Thoughts? No thought has yet unskilled attempted to flutter
Trammeled so vilely in verse;
Even if its for a while,
He who writes but aims at fame and his bread and his butter,
Won with a groan and a curse.
Of course, We still love to rhyme..
Copyright © Scott Robinson | Year Posted 2014
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Details |
Scott Robinson Poem
I pray you, Sadness, leave me soon,
In sweet invention thou art poor!
Thy sister, Joy can make ten songs
While thou art making four.
One hour with thee is sweet enough;
But when we find the whole day gone
And no created thing is left --
We mourn the evil done.
Thou art too slow to shape thy thoughts
In stone, on canvas, or in song;
But Joy, being full of active heat,
Must do some deed all along.
Thy sighs are gentle, sweet thy tears;
But if thou canst not help a man
To prove in substance what he feels --
Then give me Joy, who can.
Therefore sweet Sadness, leave me soon,
Let thy bright sister, Joy, come more;
For she can make ten lovely songs
While thou art making none.
Copyright © Scott Robinson | Year Posted 2014
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