Written by
Barry Tebb |
The women are all wearing imitation silk scarves,
Blackpool or Biarritz, sipping Woman, masticating
The morning’s post, new babies and bathrooms, going
To file, snip, fiddle and smile through fish-eyes,
Crinkly green gloss, store it in stocking-tops
For next year abroad, that Pill, so perfect!
Flashing smiles from shiny domes and polished eye-lenses,
The men are glossy all over, snapping mortgages and scores
They slap fellow-souls at a distance, gun down the abusive
Clacking conductress, apologise over-loudly for their too
Quiet cars. Plump fingers stroke smooth cheeks - bounce
Bounce, bouncing baby- faces, so manly to wet-shave!
Head heavy from dreams of bronze-fleshed centaurs
Tense with ‘The New Poets’ - no rhythm, failure of connection,
Who slept with who to get in. Aargh!
Forty rose-bearing ten-year old faces are waiting
And behind them in the staff-room corpses are coffined
In eternal celluloid faces.
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Written by
Du Fu |
Flock chickens now disorder call Guests arrive chicken fight Drive chickens on tree Begin listen knock wicker tree Elders four five people Ask me long far travel Hand in each have carry Pour jug cloudy combine clear Bitter decline wine taste thin Millet field no person farm Soldier transform already no rest Children furthest east campaigning Ask for elders sing Difficult ashamed deep feeling Song finish face heaven sigh Everyone present cry freely The flock of chickens starts to call wildly, As guests arrive, the chickens begin to fight. I drive the chickens up into the tree, And now I hear the knock on the wicker gate. Four or five elders from the village, Ask how long and far I have been travelling. Each of them brings something in his hands, We pour the clear and thick wine in together. They apologise because it tastes so thin, There's no-one left to tend the millet fields. Conscription still continues without end, The children are campaigning in the east. I ask if I can sing a song for the elders, The times so hard, I'm ashamed by these deep feelings. I finish the song, look to heaven and sigh, Everyone around is freely weeping.
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Written by
Robert Louis Stevenson |
IF you see this song, my dear,
And last year's toast,
I'm confoundedly in fear
You'll be serious and severe
About the boast.
Blame not that I sought such aid
To cure regret.
I was then so lowly laid
I used all the Gasconnade
That I could get.
Being snubbed is somewhat smart,
Believe, my sweet;
And I needed all my art
To restore my broken heart
To its conceit.
Come and smile, dear, and forget
I boasted so,
I apologise - regret -
It was all a jest; - and - yet -
I do not know.
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