Written by
Richard Wilbur |
It is a cramped little state with no foreign policy,
Save to be thought inoffensive.
The grammar of the language
Has never been fathomed, owing to the national habit
Of allowing each sentence to trail off in confusion.
Those who have visited Scusi, the capital city,
Report that the railway-route from Schuldig passes
Through country best described as unrelieved.
Sheep are the national product.
The faint inscription
Over the city gates may perhaps be rendered,
"I'm afraid you won't find much of interest here.
"
Census-reports which give the population
As zero are, of course, not to be trusted,
Save as reflecting the natives' flustered insistence
That they do not count, as well as their modest horror
Of letting one's sex be known in so many words.
The uniform grey of the nondescript buildings, the absence
Of churches or comfort-stations, have given observers
An odd impression of ostentatious meanness,
And it must be said of the citizens (muttering by
In their ratty sheepskins, shying at cracks in the sidewalk)
That they lack the peace of mind of the truly humble.
The tenor of life is careful, even in the stiff
Unsmiling carelessness of the border-guards
And douaniers, who admit, whenever they can,
Not merely the usual carloads of deodorant
But gypsies, g-strings, hasheesh, and contraband pigments.
Their complete negligence is reserved, however,
For the hoped-for invasion, at which time the happy people
(Sniggering, ruddily naked, and shamelessly drunk)
Will stun the foe by their overwhelming submission,
Corrupt the generals, infiltrate the staff,
Usurp the throne, proclaim themselves to be sun-gods,
And bring about the collapse of the whole empire.
|
Written by
John Betjeman |
Miss J.
Hunter Dunn, Miss J.
Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!
Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.
Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.
The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.
On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.
By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surry twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!
Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.
And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
|
Written by
George (Lord) Byron |
AND thou art dead as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft and charms so rare
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed 5
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low 10
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved and long must love 15
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou 20
Who didst not change through all the past
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal
Nor age can chill nor rival steal
Nor falsehood disavow; 25
And what were worse thou canst not see
Or wrong or change or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours
The worst can be but mine;
The sun that cheers the storm that lours 30
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away 35
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd.
The leaves must drop away.
40
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering leaf by leaf
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.
45
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade.
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd 50
And thou wert lovely to the last
Extinguish'd not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept if I could weep 55
My tears might well be shed
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed¡ª
To gaze how fondly! on thy face
To fold thee in a faint embrace 60
Uphold thy drooping head
And show that love however vain
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain
Though thou hast left me free 65
The loveliest things that still remain
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread eternity
Returns again to me 70
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.
|
Written by
George (Lord) Byron |
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.
|
Written by
Andrew Barton Paterson |
Our fathers, brave men were and strong,
And whisky was their daily liquor;
They used to move the world along
In better style than now -- and quicker.
Elections then were sport, you bet!
A trifle rough, there's no denying
When two opposing factions met
The skin and hair were always flying.
When "cabbage-trees" could still be worn
Without the question, "Who's your hatter?"
There dawned a bright election morn
Upon the town of Parramatta.
A man called Jones was all the go --
The people's friend, the poor's protector;
A long, gaunt, six-foot slab of woe,
He sought to charm the green elector.
How Jones had one time been trustee
For his small niece, and he -- the villain! --
Betrayed his trust most shamefully,
And robbed the child of every shillin'.
He used to keep accounts, they say,
To save himself in case of trouble;
Whatever cash he paid away
He always used to charge it double.
He'd buy the child a cotton gown
Too coarse and rough to dress a cat in,
And then he'd go and put it down
And charge the price of silk or satin!
He gave her once a little treat,
An outing down the harbour sunny,
And Lord! the bill for bread and meat,
You'd think they all had eaten money!
But Jones exposed the course he took
By carelessness -- such men are ninnies.
He went and entered in his book,
"Two pounds of sausages -- two guineas.
"
Now this leaked out, and folk got riled,
And said that Jones, "he didn't oughter".
But what cared Jones? he only smiled --
Abuse ran off his back like water.
And so he faced the world content:
His little niece -- he never paid her:
And then he stood for Parliament,
Of course he was a rank free trader.
His wealth was great, success appeared
To smile propitious on his banner,
But Providence it interfered
In this most unexpected manner.
A person -- call him Brown for short --
Who knew the story of this stealer,
Went calmly down the town and bought
Two pounds of sausage from a dealer,
And then he got a long bamboo
And tightly tied the sausage to it;
Says he, "This is the thing to do,
And I am just the man to do it.
"When Jones comes out to make his speech
I won't a clapper be, or hisser,
But with this long bamboo I'll reach
And poke the sausage in his 'kisser'.
I'll bring the wretch to scorn and shame,
Unless those darned police are nigh:
As sure as Brown's my glorious name,
I'll knock that candidate sky-high.
"
The speech comes on -- beneath the stand
The people push and surge and eddy
But Brown waits calmly close at hand
With all his apparatus ready;
And while the speaker loudly cries,
"Of ages all, this is the boss age!"
Brown hits him square between the eyes,
Exclaiming, "What's the price of sausage?"
He aimed the victuals in his face,
As though he thought poor Jones a glutton.
And Jones was covered with disgrace --
Disgrace and shame, and beef and mutton.
His cause was lost -- a hopeless wreck
He crept off from the hooting throng;
Protection proudly ruled the deck,
Here ends the sausage and the song.
|
Written by
George (Lord) Byron |
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft and charm so rare
Too soon returned to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong or change or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have passed away
I might have watched through long decay.
The flower in ripened bloom unmatched
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatched,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watct it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it plucked today;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that followed such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath past,
And thou wert lovely to the last—
Extinguished, not decayed,
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed:
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head,
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.
|
Written by
Ntozake Shange |
somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff ?not my poems or a dance i gave up in the street? but somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
like a kleptomaniac workin hard & forgettin while stealin? this is mine/this aint yr stuff/?now why don’t you put me back & let me hang out in my own self
somebody almost walked off wit alla my stuff ; didn’t care enuf to send a note home sayin ?i was late for my solo conversation? or two sizes to small for my own tacky skirts
what can anybody do wit somethin of no value on?a open market/ did you getta dime for my things/?hey man/ where are you goin wid alla my stuff/?to ohh & ahh abt/ daddy/ i gotta mainline number ?from my own ****/ now wontcha put me back/ & let? me play this duet/ wit silver ring in my nose/?honest to god/
somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff/ ?& i didnt bring anythin but the kick & sway of it ?the perfect ass for my man & none of it is theirs ?this is mine/ ntozake ‘her own things’/ that’s my name? now give me my stuff/ i see ya hidin my laugh/ & how i?s it wif my legs open sometimes/ to give me ?some sunlight/ & there goes my love my toes my chewed ?up finger nails/ niggah/ wif the curls in yr hair/?mr. louisiana hot link/
i want my stuff back/?my rhythms & my voice/ open my mouth/ & let me talk ya ?outta/ throwin my **** in the sewar/ this is some delicate ?leg & whimsical kiss/ i gotta have to give to my choice/?without you runnin off wit alla my ****/?now you cant have me less i give me away/ i waz?doin all that/ til ya run off on a good thing/
who is this you left me wit/ some simple ***** ?widda bad attitude/ i wants my things/?i want my arm wit the hot iron scar/ & my leg wit the? flea bite/ i want my calloused feet & quik language back?in my mouth/ fried plantains/ pineapple pear juice/ ?sun-ra & joseph & jules/ i want my own things/ how i lived them/?& give me my memories/ how i waz when i waz there/?you cant have them or do nothin wit them/
stealin my **** from me/ dont make it yrs/ makes it stolen/?somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff/ & i waz standin? there/ lookin at myself/ the whole time ?& it waznt a spirit took my stuff/ waz a man whose ?ego walked round like Rodan’s shadow/ waz a man faster?n my innocence/
waz a lover/ i made too much ?room for/ almost run off wit alla my stuff/?& i didnt know i’d give it up so quik/ & the one runnin wit it/?don’t know he got it/ & i’m shoutin this is mine/ & he dont ?know he got it/ my stuff is the anonymous ripped off treasure? of the year/
did you know somebody almost got away wit me/?me in a plastic bag under their arm/ me ?danglin on a string of personal carelessness/ i’m spattered wit? mud & city rain/ & no i didnt get a chance to take a douche/?hey man/ this is not your prerogative/ i gotta have me in my? pocket/ to get round like a good woman shd/ & make the poem?in the pot or the chicken in the dance/
what i got to do/?i gotta get my stuff to do it to/?why dont ya find yr own things/ & leave this package ?of me for my destiny/ what ya got to get from me/?i’ll give it to ya/ yeh/ i’ll give it to ya/?round 5:00 in the winter/ when the sky is blue-red/?& Dew City is gettin pressed/ if it’s really my stuff/?ya gotta give it to me/ if ya really want it/ i’m ?the only one/ can handle it
-----By: Ntozake Shange.
|
Written by
Anne Kingsmill Finch |
Give me, O indulgent Fate!
Give me yet before I die
A sweet, but absolute retreat,
'Mongst paths so lost and trees so high
That the world may ne'er invade
Through such windings and such shade
My unshaken liberty.
No intruders thither come
Who visit but to be from home!
None who their vain moments pass
Only studious of their glass;
News, that charm to list'ning ears,
That false alarm to hopes and fears,
That common theme for every fop,
From the statesman to the shop,
In those coverts ne'er be spread,
Of who's deceas'd, and who's to wed.
Be no tidings thither brought,
But silent as a midnight thought
Where the world may ne'er invade
Be those windings and that shade!
Courteous Fate! afford me there
A table spread, without my care,
With what the neighb'ring fields impart,
Whose cleanliness be all its art.
When of old the calf was drest
(Though to make an angel's feast)
In the plain unstudied sauce
Nor truffle nor morillia was;
Nor could the mighty patriarchs' board
One far-fetch'd ortolan afford.
Courteous Fate! then give me there
Only plain and wholesome fare;
Fruits indeed (would heaven bestow)
All that did in Eden grow,
All but the forbidden Tree
Would be coveted by me;
Grapes with juice so crowded up
As breaking through the native cup;
Figs yet growing candied o'er
By the sun's attracting power;
Cherries, with the downy peach,
All within my easy reach;
Whilst creeping near the humble ground
Should the strawberry be found
Springing wheresoe'er I stray'd
Through those windings and that shade.
For my garments: let them be
What may with the time agree;
Warm when Ph{oe}bus does retire
And is ill-supplied by fire:
But when he renews the year
And verdant all the fields appear,
Beauty every thing resumes,
Birds have dropp'd their winter plumes,
When the lily full-display'd
Stands in purer white array'd
Than that vest which heretofore
The luxurious monarch wore,
When from Salem's gates he drove
To the soft retreat of love,
Lebanon's all burnish'd house
And the dear Egyptian spouse.
Clothe me, Fate, though not so gay,
Clothe me light and fresh as May!
In the fountains let me view
All my habit cheap and new
Such as, when sweet zephyrs fly,
With their motions may comply,
Gently waving to express
Unaffected carelessness.
No perfumes have there a part
Borrow'd from the chemist's art,
But such as rise from flow'ry beds
Or the falling jasmine sheds!
'Twas the odour of the field
Esau's rural coat did yield
That inspir'd his father's prayer
For blessings of the earth and air:
Of gums or powders had it smelt,
The supplanter, then unfelt,
Easily had been descried
For one that did in tents abide,
For some beauteous handmaid's joy,
And his mother's darling boy.
Let me then no fragrance wear
But what the winds from gardens bear,
In such kind surprising gales
As gather'd from Fidentia's vales
All the flowers that in them grew;
Which intermixing as they flew
In wreathen garlands dropp'd again
On Lucullus and his men;
Who, cheer'd by the victorious sight,
Trebled numbers put to flight.
Let me, when I must be fine,
In such natural colours shine;
Wove and painted by the sun;
Whose resplendent rays to shun
When they do too fiercely beat
Let me find some close retreat
Where they have no passage made
Through those windings, and that shade.
|