Written by
Ogden Nash |
Some singers sing of ladies' eyes,
And some of ladies lips,
Refined ones praise their ladylike ways,
And course ones hymn their hips.
The Oxford Book of English Verse
Is lush with lyrics tender;
A poet, I guess, is more or less
Preoccupied with gender.
Yet I, though custom call me crude,
Prefer to sing in praise of food.
Food,
Yes, food,
Just any old kind of food.
Pheasant is pleasant, of course,
And terrapin, too, is tasty,
Lobster I freely endorse,
In pate or patty or pasty.
But there's nothing the matter with butter,
And nothing the matter with jam,
And the warmest greetings I utter
To the ham and the yam and the clam.
For they're food,
All food,
And I think very fondly of food.
Through I'm broody at times
When bothered by rhymes,
I brood
On food.
Some painters paint the sapphire sea,
And some the gathering storm.
Others portray young lambs at play,
But most, the female form.
“Twas trite in that primeval dawn
When painting got its start,
That a lady with her garments on
Is Life, but is she Art?
By undraped nymphs
I am not wooed;
I'd rather painters painted food.
Food,
Just food,
Just any old kind of food.
Go purloin a sirloin, my pet,
If you'd win a devotion incredible;
And asparagus tips vinaigrette,
Or anything else that is edible.
Bring salad or sausage or scrapple,
A berry or even a beet.
Bring an oyster, an egg, or an apple,
As long as it's something to eat.
If it's food,
It's food;
Never mind what kind of food.
When I ponder my mind
I consistently find
It is glued
On food.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XXI. I' vo pensando, e nel pensier m' assale. SELF-CONFLICT. Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thoughtSo strong a pity for myself appears,[Pg 227]That often it has broughtMy harass'd heart to new yet natural tears;Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh,Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wingsWith which the spirit springs,Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain:And so indeed in justice should it be;Able to stay, who went and fell, that heShould prostrate, in his own despite, remain.But, lo! the tender armsIn which I trust are open to me still,Though fears my bosom fillOf others' fate, and my own heart alarms,Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill. One thought thus parleys with my troubled mind—"What still do you desire, whence succour wait?Ah! wherefore to this great,This guilty loss of time so madly blind?Take up at length, wisely take up your part:Tear every root of pleasure from your heart,Which ne'er can make it blest,Nor lets it freely play, nor calmly rest.If long ago with tedium and disgustYou view'd the false and fugitive delightsWith which its tools a treacherous world requites,Why longer then repose in it your trust,Whence peace and firmness are in exile thrust?While life and vigour stay,The bridle of your thoughts is in your power:Grasp, guide it while you may:So clogg'd with doubt, so dangerous is delay,The best for wise reform is still the present hour. "Well known to you what rapture still has beenShed on your eyes by the dear sight of herWhom, for your peace it wereBetter if she the light had never seen;And you remember well (as well you ought)[Pg 228]Her image, when, as with one conquering bound,Your heart in prey she caught,Where flame from other light no entrance found.She fired it, and if that fallacious heatLasted long years, expecting still one day,Which for our safety came not, to repay,It lifts you now to hope more blest and sweet,Uplooking to that heaven around your headImmortal, glorious spread;If but a glance, a brief word, an old song,Had here such power to charmYour eager passion, glad of its own harm,How far 'twill then exceed if now the joy so strong." Another thought the while, severe and sweet,Laborious, yet delectable in scope,Takes in my heart its seat,Filling with glory, feeding it with hope;Till, bent alone on bright and deathless fame,It feels not when I freeze, or burn in flame,When I am pale or ill,And if I crush it rises stronger still.This, from my helpless cradle, day by day,Has strengthen'd with my strength, grown with my growth,Till haply now one tomb must cover both:When from the flesh the soul has pass'd away,No more this passion comrades it as here;For fame—if, after death,Learning speak aught of me—is but a breath:Wherefore, because I fearHopes to indulge which the next hour may chase,I would old error leave, and the one truth embrace. But the third wish which fills and fires my heartO'ershadows all the rest which near it spring:Time, too, dispels a part,While, but for her, self-reckless grown, I sing.And then the rare light of those beauteous eyes,Sweetly before whose gentle heat I melt,As a fine curb is felt,To combat which avails not wit or force;[Pg 229]What boots it, trammell'd by such adverse ties,If still between the rocks must lie her course,To trim my little bark to new emprize?Ah! wilt Thou never, Lord, who yet dost keepMe safe and free from common chains, which bind,In different modes, mankind,Deign also from my brow this shame to sweep?For, as one sunk in sleep,Methinks death ever present to my sight,Yet when I would resist I have no arms to fight. Full well I see my state, in nought deceivedBy truth ill known, but rather forced by Love,Who leaves not him to moveIn honour, who too much his grace believed:For o'er my heart from time to time I feelA subtle scorn, a lively anguish, steal,Whence every hidden thought,Where all may see, upon my brow is writ.For with such faith on mortal things to dote,As unto God alone is just and fit,Disgraces worst the prize who covets most:Should reason, amid things of sense, be lost.This loudly calls her to the proper track:But, when she would obeyAnd home return, ill habits keep her back,And to my view portrayHer who was only born my death to be,Too lovely in herself, too loved, alas! by me. I neither know, to me what term of lifeHeaven destined when on earth I came at firstTo suffer this sharp strife,'Gainst my own peace which I myself have nursed,Nor can I, for the veil my body throws,Yet see the time when my sad life may close.I feel my frame beginTo fail, and vary each desire within:And now that I believe my parting dayIs near at hand, or else not distant lies,Like one whom losses wary make and wise,I travel back in thought, where first the way,[Pg 230]The right-hand way, I left, to peace which led.While through me shame and grief,Recalling the vain past on this side spread,On that brings no relief,Passion, whose strength I now from habit, feel,So great that it would dare with death itself to deal. Song! I am here, my heart the while more coldWith fear than frozen snow,Feels in its certain core death's coming blow;For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'dOf my vain life the better portion by:Worse burden surely ne'erTried mortal man than that which now I bear;Though death be seated nigh,For future life still seeking councils new,I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CCXI. Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente. MELANCHOLY RECOLLECTIONS AND PRESAGES. O Laura! when my tortured mindThe sad remembrance bearsOf that ill-omen'd day,When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears,I left my soul behind,That soul that could not from its partner stray;In nightly visions to my longing eyesThy form oft seems to rise,As ever thou wert seen,Fair like the rose, 'midst paling flowers the queen,[Pg 218]But loosely in the wind,Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair,That late with studious care,I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined:On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears;Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears;Placid in pain thou seem'st, serene in grief,As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief!Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deignTo hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain! Woodhouselee. What dread I feel when I revolve the dayI left my mistress, sad, without repose,My heart too with her: and my fond thought knowsNought on which gladlier, oft'ner it can stay.Again my fancy doth her form portrayMeek among beauty's train, like to some roseMidst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows;Not with misfortune prest but with dismay.Then were thrown by her custom'd cheerfulness,Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire,Her song, her laughter, and her mild address;Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love:Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings direRaise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove! Nott.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXIV. Quel sempre acerbo ed onorato giorno. HE RECALLS HER AS HE SAW HER WHEN IN TEARS. That ever-painful, ever-honour'd daySo left her living image on my heartBeyond or lover's wit or poet's art,That oft to it will doting memory stray.A gentle pity softening her bright mien,Her sorrow there so sweet and sad was heard,Doubt in the gazer's bosom almost stirr'dGoddess or mortal, which made heaven serene.[Pg 152]Fine gold her hair, her face as sunlit snow,Her brows and lashes jet, twin stars her eyne,Whence the young archer oft took fatal aim;Each loving lip—whence, utterance sweet and lowHer pent grief found—a rose which rare pearls line,Her tears of crystal and her sighs of flame. Macgregor. That ever-honour'd, yet too bitter day,Her image hath so graven in my breast,That only memory can return it dress'dIn living charms, no genius could portray:Her air such graceful sadness did display,Her plaintive, soft laments my ear so bless'd,I ask'd if mortal, or a heavenly guest,Did thus the threatening clouds in smiles array.Her locks were gold, her cheeks were breathing snow,Her brows with ebon arch'd—bright stars her eyes,Wherein Love nestled, thence his dart to aim:Her teeth were pearls—the rose's softest glowDwelt on that mouth, whence woke to speech grief's sighsHer tears were crystal—and her breath was flame. Wollaston.
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