Written by
Nazim Hikmet |
it's 1962 March 28th
I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
I don't like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird
I didn't know I loved the earth
can someone who hasn't worked the earth love it
I've never worked the earth
it must be my only Platonic love
and here I've loved rivers all this time
whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
European hills crowned with chateaus
or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
I know you can't wash in the same river even once
I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see
I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
I know this has troubled people before
and will trouble those after me
I know all this has been said a thousand times before
and will be said after me
I didn't know I loved the sky
cloudy or clear
the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino
in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish
I hear voices
not from the blue vault but from the yard
the guards are beating someone again
I didn't know I loved trees
bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino
they come upon me in winter noble and modest
beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish
"the poplars of Izmir
losing their leaves. . .
they call me The Knife. . .
lover like a young tree. . .
I blow stately mansions sky-high"
in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief
to a pine bough for luck
I never knew I loved roads
even the asphalt kind
Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea
Koktebele
formerly "Goktepé ili" in Turkish
the two of us inside a closed box
the world flows past on both sides distant and mute
I was never so close to anyone in my life
bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé
when I was eighteen
apart from my life I didn't have anything in the wagon they could take
and at eighteen our lives are what we value least
I've written this somewhere before
wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play
Ramazan night
a paper lantern leading the way
maybe nothing like this ever happened
maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy
going to the shadow play
Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather's hand
his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat
with a sable collar over his robe
and there's a lantern in the servant's hand
and I can't contain myself for joy
flowers come to mind for some reason
poppies cactuses jonquils
in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika
fresh almonds on her breath
I was seventeen
my heart on a swing touched the sky
I didn't know I loved flowers
friends sent me three red carnations in prison
I just remembered the stars
I love them too
whether I'm floored watching them from below
or whether I'm flying at their side
I have some questions for the cosmonauts
were the stars much bigger
did they look like huge jewels on black velvet
or apricots on orange
did you feel proud to get closer to the stars
I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don't
be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract
well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to
say they were terribly figurative and concrete
my heart was in my mouth looking at them
they are our endless desire to grasp things
seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad
I never knew I loved the cosmos
snow flashes in front of my eyes
both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind
I didn't know I liked snow
I never knew I loved the sun
even when setting cherry-red as now
in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors
but you aren't about to paint it that way
I didn't know I loved the sea
except the Sea of Azov
or how much
I didn't know I loved clouds
whether I'm under or up above them
whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts
moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois
strikes me
I like it
I didn't know I liked rain
whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my
heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop
and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved
rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting
by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
is it because I lit my sixth cigarette
one alone could kill me
is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue
the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn't know I loved sparks
I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty
to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return
19 April 1962
Moscow
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Written by
Robert William Service |
(16th January 1949)
I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that's mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I'm a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.
My daughter thinks. because I'm old
(I'm not a crock, when all is said),
I mustn't let my feet get cold,
And should wear woollen socks in bed;
A worsted night-cap too, forsooth!
To humour her I won't contrive:
A man is in his second youth
When he is
Seventy-and-five.
At four-score years old age begins,
And not till then, I warn my wife;
At eighty I'll recant my sins,
And live a staid and sober life.
But meantime let me whoop it up,
And tell the world that I'm alive:
Fill to the brim the bubbly cup -
Here's health to
Seventy-and-five!
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Written by
Robert William Service |
A bonny bird I found today
Mired in a melt of tar;
Its silky breast was silver-grey,
Its wings were cinnabar.
So still it lay right in the way
Of every passing car.
Yet as I gently sought to pry
It loose, it glared at me;
You would have thought its foe was I,
It pecked so viciously;
So fiercely fought, as soft I sought
From death to set it free.
Its pinions pitifully frail
I wrested from the muck;
I feared the feathers of its tail
Would never come unstuck.
. . . The jewel-bright it flashed in flight -
Oh how I wished it luck!
With happiness my heart was light,
To see how fair it flew;
To do my good deed I delight,
As grey-haired scouts should do;
Yet oh my bright reward's to write
This simple rhyme for you!
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
X. ? PRÆLUDIUM. For the more countenance to my active muse? Hercules ? Alas his bones are yet sore, With his old earthly labors : t' exact more, Of his dull godhead, were sin. I'll implore Phoebus. No, tend thy cart still. Envious day Shall not give out that I have made thee stay, And founder'd thy hot team, to tune my lay. Nor will I beg of thee, Lord of the vine, To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine, In the green circle of thy ivy twine. Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid, That at thy birth, mad'st the poor smith afraid, Who with his axe, thy father's midwife plaid. Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts, Or, with thy tribade trine, invent new sports ; Thou nor thy looseness with my making sorts. Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task, Turn the stale prologue to some painted mask ; His absence in my verse, is all I ask. Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us, Though he would steal his sisters' Pegasus, And rifle him : or pawn his petasus. THE PHOENIX ANALYSED. Now, after all, let no man Receive it for a fable, If a bird so amiable Do turn into a woman. Or, by our Turtle's augure, That nature's fairest creature Prove of his mistress' feature But a bare type and figure. Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake, (Though they were crushed into one form) could make A beauty of that merit, that should take.  Splendor ! O more than mortal For other forms come short all, Of her illustrious brightness As far as sin's from lightness. Her wit as quick and sprightful As fire, and more delightful Than the stolen sports of lovers, When night their meeting covers. Judgment, adorn'd with learning, Doth shine in her discerning, Clear as a naked vestal Closed in an orb of crystal. Her breath for sweet exceeding The phoenix' place of breeding, But mix'd with sound, transcending All nature of commending. Alas then whither wade I In thought to praise this lady, When seeking her renowning My self am so near drowning? Retire, and say her graces Are deeper than their faces, Yet she's not nice to show them, Nor takes she pride to know them. My muse up by commission ; no, I bring My own true fire : now my thought takes wing, And now an EPODE to deep ears I sing.
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
owls and pussy cats can make up their minds
to sail out to sea and even get married
but they don't have parents or other such binds
whose one job in life is to see that they're harried
now a seven year old boy whose mind is quite clear
about what the world is and his proper place
will feel deeply distraught and totally drear
when told to wipe all his smart dreams off his face
when told he can't have what his brother (eleven)
just takes for granted and won't even share
adults can't imagine what hell blots out heaven
when a seven year old boy is forbidden to swear
so what a great hope is the land of the bong tree
where a piggy-wig grants you whatever you wish
and you can if you dare be as daft as a donkey
or turn on the spot to a great ogre fish
and brothers and mothers and fathers are sent
to the north or south pole or even to mars
and not to come back till you agree to relent
and then to shut up or you'll mars them to bars
mind you owls and pussy cats have to get married
they have to join hands and dance by the moon
for seven year olds that's worse than being carried
to a toilet and tipped in by a runcible spoon
so maybe it's better to stay where the home is
to put up with parents and brothers (eleven)
to turn the new day into the splendour this poem is
and everyone goes yippee for matthew now seven
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Written by
Robert William Service |
"I'm going, Billy, old fellow. Hist, lad! Don't make any noise.
There's Boches to beat all creation, the pitch of a bomb away.
I've fixed the note to your collar, you've got to get back to my Boys,
You've got to get back to warn 'em before it's the break of day."
The order came to go forward to a trench-line traced on the map;
I knew the brass-hats had blundered, I knew and I told 'em so;
I knew if I did as they ordered I would tumble into a trap,
And I tried to explain, but the answer came like a pistol: "Go."
Then I thought of the Boys I commanded -- I always called them "my Boys" --
The men of my own recruiting, the lads of my countryside;
Tested in many a battle, I knew their sorrows and joys,
And I loved them all like a father, with more than a father's pride.
To march my Boys to a shambles as soon as the dawn of day;
To see them helplessly slaughtered, if all that I guessed was true;
My Boys that trusted me blindly, I thought and I tried to pray,
And then I arose and I muttered: "It's either them or it's you."
I rose and I donned my rain-coat; I buckled my helmet tight.
I remember you watched me, Billy, as I took my cane in my hand;
I vaulted over the sandbags into the pitchy night,
Into the pitted valley that served us as No Man's Land.
I strode out over the hollow of hate and havoc and death,
From the heights the guns were angry, with a vengeful snarling of steel;
And once in a moment of stillness I heard hard panting breath,
And I turned . . . it was you, old rascal, following hard on my heel.
I fancy I cursed you, Billy; but not so much as I ought!
And so we went forward together, till we came to the valley rim,
And then a star-shell sputtered . . . it was even worse than I thought,
For the trench they told me to move in was packed with Boche to the brim.
They saw me too, and they got me; they peppered me till I fell;
And there I scribbled my message with my life-blood ebbing away;
"Now, Billy, you fat old duffer, you've got to get back like hell;
And get them to cancel that order before it's the dawn of day.
"Billy, old boy, I love you, I kiss your shiny black nose;
Now, home there. . . . Hurry, you devil, or I'll cut you to ribands. . . . See . . ."
Poor brute! he's off! and I'm dying. . . . I go as a soldier goes.
I'm happy. My Boys, God bless 'em! . . . It had to be them or me.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
Each day when it's anighing three
Old Dick looks at the clock,
Then proudly brings my stick to me
To mind me of our walk.
And in his doggy rapture he
Does everything but talk.
But since I lack his zip and zest
My old bones often tire;
And so I ventured to suggest
Today we hug the fire.
But with what wailing he expressed
The death of his desire!
He gazed at me with eyes of woe
As if to say: 'Old boy,
You mustn't lose your grip, you know,
Let us with laughing joy,
On heath and hill six miles or so
Our legs and lungs employ.'
And then his bark was stilled to a sigh
He flopped upon the floor;
But such a soft old mug am I
I threw awide the door;
So gaily, though the wind was high
We hiked across the moor.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
What d'ye think, lad; what d'ye think,
As the roaring crowds go by?
As the banners flare and the brasses blare
And the great guns rend the sky?
As the women laugh like they'd all gone mad,
And the champagne glasses clink:
Oh, you're grippin' me hand so tightly, lad,
I'm a-wonderin': what d'ye think?
D'ye think o' the boys we used to know,
And how they'd have topped the fun?
Tom and Charlie, and Jack and Joe --
Gone now, every one.
How they'd have cheered as the joy-bells chime,
And they grabbed each girl for a kiss!
And now -- they're rottin' in Flanders slime,
And they gave their lives -- for this.
Or else d'ye think of the many a time
We wished we too was dead,
Up to our knees in the freezin' grime,
With the fires of hell overhead;
When the youth and the strength of us sapped away,
And we cursed in our rage and pain?
And yet -- we haven't a word to say. . . .
We're glad. We'd do it again.
I'm scared that they pity us. Come, old boy,
Let's leave them their flags and their fuss.
We'd surely be hatin' to spoil their joy
With the sight of such wrecks as us.
Let's slip away quietly, you and me,
And we'll talk of our chums out there:
You with your eyes that'll never see,
Me that's wheeled in a chair.
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Mother 's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two,
An', oh, the house is lonesome ez a nest whose birds has flew
To other trees to build ag'in; the rooms seem jest so bare
That the echoes run like sperrits from the kitchen to the stair.
The shetters flap more lazy-like 'n what they used to do,
Sence mother 's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
We 've killed the fattest chicken an' we've cooked her to a turn;
We 've made the richest gravy, but I jest don't give a durn
Fur nothin' 'at I drink er eat, er nothin' 'at I see.
The food ain't got the pleasant taste it used to have to me.
They 's somep'n' stickin' in my throat ez tight ez hardened glue,
Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
The hollyhocks air jest ez pink, they 're double ones at that,
An' I wuz prouder of 'em than a baby of a cat.
But now I don't go near 'em, though they nod an' blush at me,
Fur they 's somep'n' seems to gall me in their keerless sort o' glee
An' all their fren'ly noddin' an' their blushin' seems to say:
"You 're purty lonesome, John, old boy, sence mother 's gone away."[Pg 80]
The neighbors ain't so fren'ly ez it seems they 'd ort to be;
They seem to be a-lookin' kinder sideways like at me,
A-kinder feared they 'd tech me off ez ef I wuz a match,
An' all because 'at mother 's gone an' I 'm a-keepin' batch!
I 'm shore I don't do nothin' worse 'n what I used to do
'Fore mother went a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
The sparrers ac's more fearsome like an' won't hop quite so near,
The cricket's chirp is sadder, an' the sky ain't ha'f so clear;
When ev'nin' comes, I set an' smoke tell my eyes begin to swim,
An' things aroun' commence to look all blurred an' faint an' dim.
Well, I guess I 'll have to own up 'at I 'm feelin' purty blue
Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
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