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Best Famous Scandal Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Scandal poems. This is a select list of the best famous Scandal poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Scandal poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of scandal poems.

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Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

Plutonian Ode

 I

What new element before us unborn in nature? Is there
 a new thing under the Sun?
At last inquisitive Whitman a modern epic, detonative,
 Scientific theme
First penned unmindful by Doctor Seaborg with poison-
 ous hand, named for Death's planet through the 
 sea beyond Uranus
whose chthonic ore fathers this magma-teared Lord of 
 Hades, Sire of avenging Furies, billionaire Hell-
 King worshipped once
with black sheep throats cut, priests's face averted from
 underground mysteries in single temple at Eleusis,
Spring-green Persephone nuptialed to his inevitable
 Shade, Demeter mother of asphodel weeping dew,
her daughter stored in salty caverns under white snow, 
 black hail, grey winter rain or Polar ice, immemor-
 able seasons before
Fish flew in Heaven, before a Ram died by the starry
 bush, before the Bull stamped sky and earth
or Twins inscribed their memories in clay or Crab'd
 flood
washed memory from the skull, or Lion sniffed the
 lilac breeze in Eden--
Before the Great Year began turning its twelve signs,
 ere constellations wheeled for twenty-four thousand
 sunny years
slowly round their axis in Sagittarius, one hundred 
 sixty-seven thousand times returning to this night

Radioactive Nemesis were you there at the beginning 
 black dumb tongueless unsmelling blast of Disil-
 lusion?
I manifest your Baptismal Word after four billion years
I guess your birthday in Earthling Night, I salute your
 dreadful presence last majestic as the Gods,
Sabaot, Jehova, Astapheus, Adonaeus, Elohim, Iao, 
 Ialdabaoth, Aeon from Aeon born ignorant in an
 Abyss of Light,
Sophia's reflections glittering thoughtful galaxies, whirl-
 pools of starspume silver-thin as hairs of Einstein!
Father Whitman I celebrate a matter that renders Self
 oblivion!
Grand Subject that annihilates inky hands & pages'
 prayers, old orators' inspired Immortalities,
I begin your chant, openmouthed exhaling into spacious
 sky over silent mills at Hanford, Savannah River,
 Rocky Flats, Pantex, Burlington, Albuquerque
I yell thru Washington, South Carolina, Colorado, 
 Texas, Iowa, New Mexico,
Where nuclear reactors creat a new Thing under the 
 Sun, where Rockwell war-plants fabricate this death
 stuff trigger in nitrogen baths,
Hanger-Silas Mason assembles the terrified weapon
 secret by ten thousands, & where Manzano Moun-
 tain boasts to store
its dreadful decay through two hundred forty millenia
 while our Galaxy spirals around its nebulous core.
I enter your secret places with my mind, I speak with your presence, I roar your Lion Roar with mortal mouth.
One microgram inspired to one lung, ten pounds of heavy metal dust adrift slow motion over grey Alps the breadth of the planet, how long before your radiance speeds blight and death to sentient beings? Enter my body or not I carol my spirit inside you, Unnaproachable Weight, O heavy heavy Element awakened I vocalize your con- sciousness to six worlds I chant your absolute Vanity.
Yeah monster of Anger birthed in fear O most Ignorant matter ever created unnatural to Earth! Delusion of metal empires! Destroyer of lying Scientists! Devourer of covetous Generals, Incinerator of Armies & Melter of Wars! Judgement of judgements, Divine Wind over vengeful nations, Molester of Presidents, Death-Scandal of Capital politics! Ah civilizations stupidly indus- trious! Canker-Hex on multitudes learned or illiterate! Manu- factured Spectre of human reason! O solidified imago of practicioner in Black Arts I dare your reality, I challenge your very being! I publish your cause and effect! I turn the wheel of Mind on your three hundred tons! Your name enters mankind's ear! I embody your ultimate powers! My oratory advances on your vaunted Mystery! This breath dispels your braggart fears! I sing your form at last behind your concrete & iron walls inside your fortress of rubber & translucent silicon shields in filtered cabinets and baths of lathe oil, My voice resounds through robot glove boxes & ignot cans and echoes in electric vaults inert of atmo- sphere, I enter with spirit out loud into your fuel rod drums underground on soundless thrones and beds of lead O density! This weightless anthem trumpets transcendent through hidden chambers and breaks through iron doors into the Infernal Room! Over your dreadful vibration this measured harmony floats audible, these jubilant tones are honey and milk and wine-sweet water Poured on the stone black floor, these syllables are barley groats I scatter on the Reactor's core, I call your name with hollow vowels, I psalm your Fate close by, my breath near deathless ever at your side to Spell your destiny, I set this verse prophetic on your mausoleum walls to seal you up Eternally with Diamond Truth! O doomed Plutonium.
II The Bar surveys Plutonian history from midnight lit with Mercury Vapor streetlamps till in dawn's early light he contemplates a tranquil politic spaced out between Nations' thought-forms proliferating bureaucratic & horrific arm'd, Satanic industries projected sudden with Five Hundred Billion Dollar Strength around the world same time this text is set in Boulder, Colorado before front range of Rocky Mountains twelve miles north of Rocky Flats Nuclear Facility in United States of North America, Western Hemi- sphere of planet Earth six months and fourteen days around our Solar System in a Spiral Galaxy the local year after Dominion of the last God nineteen hundred seventy eight Completed as yellow hazed dawn clouds brighten East, Denver city white below Blue sky transparent rising empty deep & spacious to a morning star high over the balcony above some autos sat with wheels to curb downhill from Flatiron's jagged pine ridge, sunlit mountain meadows sloped to rust-red sandstone cliffs above brick townhouse roofs as sparrows waked whistling through Marine Street's summer green leafed trees.
III This ode to you O Poets and Orators to come, you father Whitman as I join your side, you Congress and American people, you present meditators, spiritual friends & teachers, you O Master of the Diamond Arts, Take this wheel of syllables in hand, these vowels and consonants to breath's end take this inhalation of black poison to your heart, breath out this blessing from your breast on our creation forests cities oceans deserts rocky flats and mountains in the Ten Directions pacify with exhalation, enrich this Plutonian Ode to explode its empty thunder through earthen thought-worlds Magnetize this howl with heartless compassion, destroy this mountain of Plutonium with ordinary mind and body speech, thus empower this Mind-guard spirit gone out, gone out, gone beyond, gone beyond me, Wake space, so Ah! July 14, 1978


Written by William Henry Davies | Create an image from this poem

The Child and the Mariner

 A dear old couple my grandparents were, 
And kind to all dumb things; they saw in Heaven 
The lamb that Jesus petted when a child; 
Their faith was never draped by Doubt: to them 
Death was a rainbow in Eternity, 
That promised everlasting brightness soon.
An old seafaring man was he; a rough Old man, but kind; and hairy, like the nut Full of sweet milk.
All day on shore he watched The winds for sailors' wives, and told what ships Enjoyed fair weather, and what ships had storms; He watched the sky, and he could tell for sure What afternoons would follow stormy morns, If quiet nights would end wild afternoons.
He leapt away from scandal with a roar, And if a whisper still possessed his mind, He walked about and cursed it for a plague.
He took offence at Heaven when beggars passed, And sternly called them back to give them help.
In this old captain's house I lived, and things That house contained were in ships' cabins once: Sea-shells and charts and pebbles, model ships; Green weeds, dried fishes stuffed, and coral stalks; Old wooden trunks with handles of spliced rope, With copper saucers full of monies strange, That seemed the savings of dead men, not touched To keep them warm since their real owners died; Strings of red beads, methought were dipped in blood, And swinging lamps, as though the house might move; An ivory lighthouse built on ivory rocks, The bones of fishes and three bottled ships.
And many a thing was there which sailors make In idle hours, when on long voyages, Of marvellous patience, to no lovely end.
And on those charts I saw the small black dots That were called islands, and I knew they had Turtles and palms, and pirates' buried gold.
There came a stranger to my granddad's house, The old man's nephew, a seafarer too; A big, strong able man who could have walked Twm Barlum's hill all clad in iron mail So strong he could have made one man his club To knock down others -- Henry was his name, No other name was uttered by his kin.
And here he was, sooth illclad, but oh, Thought I, what secrets of the sea are his! This man knows coral islands in the sea, And dusky girls heartbroken for white men; More rich than Spain, when the Phoenicians shipped Silver for common ballast, and they saw Horses at silver mangers eating grain; This man has seen the wind blow up a mermaid's hair Which, like a golden serpent, reared and stretched To feel the air away beyond her head.
He begged my pennies, which I gave with joy -- He will most certainly return some time A self-made king of some new land, and rich.
Alas that he, the hero of my dreams, Should be his people's scorn; for they had rose To proud command of ships, whilst he had toiled Before the mast for years, and well content; Him they despised, and only Death could bring A likeness in his face to show like them.
For he drank all his pay, nor went to sea As long as ale was easy got on shore.
Now, in his last long voyage he had sailed From Plymouth Sound to where sweet odours fan The Cingalese at work, and then back home -- But came not near my kin till pay was spent.
He was not old, yet seemed so; for his face Looked like the drowned man's in the morgue, when it Has struck the wooden wharves and keels of ships.
And all his flesh was pricked with Indian ink, His body marked as rare and delicate As dead men struck by lightning under trees And pictured with fine twigs and curlèd ferns; Chains on his neck and anchors on his arms; Rings on his fingers, bracelets on his wrist; And on his breast the Jane of Appledore Was schooner rigged, and in full sail at sea.
He could not whisper with his strong hoarse voice, No more than could a horse creep quietly; He laughed to scorn the men that muffled close For fear of wind, till all their neck was hid, Like Indian corn wrapped up in long green leaves; He knew no flowers but seaweeds brown and green, He knew no birds but those that followed ships.
Full well he knew the water-world; he heard A grander music there than we on land, When organ shakes a church; swore he would make The sea his home, though it was always roused By such wild storms as never leave Cape Horn; Happy to hear the tempest grunt and squeal Like pigs heard dying in a slaughterhouse.
A true-born mariner, and this his hope -- His coffin would be what his cradle was, A boat to drown in and be sunk at sea; Salted and iced in Neptune's larder deep.
This man despised small coasters, fishing-smacks; He scorned those sailors who at night and morn Can see the coast, when in their little boats They go a six days' voyage and are back Home with their wives for every Sabbath day.
Much did he talk of tankards of old beer, And bottled stuff he drank in other lands, Which was a liquid fire like Hell to gulp, But Paradise to sip.
And so he talked; Nor did those people listen with more awe To Lazurus -- whom they had seen stone dead -- Than did we urchins to that seaman's voice.
He many a tale of wonder told: of where, At Argostoli, Cephalonia's sea Ran over the earth's lip in heavy floods; And then again of how the strange Chinese Conversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing.
He told us how he sailed in one old ship Near that volcano Martinique, whose power Shook like dry leaves the whole Caribbean seas; And made the sun set in a sea of fire Which only half was his; and dust was thick On deck, and stones were pelted at the mast.
Into my greedy ears such words that sleep Stood at my pillow half the night perplexed.
He told how isles sprang up and sank again, Between short voyages, to his amaze; How they did come and go, and cheated charts; Told how a crew was cursed when one man killed A bird that perched upon a moving barque; And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong, Ripped open the bellies of big, iron ships; Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas, That haunt the far hirizon like white ghosts.
He told of waves that lift a ship so high That birds could pass from starboard unto port Under her dripping keel.
Oh, it was sweet To hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales: How deep the sea in parts, that drownèd men Must go a long way to their graves and sink Day after day, and wander with the tides.
He spake of his own deeds; of how he sailed One summer's night along the Bosphorus, And he -- who knew no music like the wash Of waves against a ship, or wind in shrouds -- Heard then the music on that woody shore Of nightingales,and feared to leave the deck, He thought 'twas sailing into Paradise.
To hear these stories all we urchins placed Our pennies in that seaman's ready hand; Until one morn he signed on for a long cruise, And sailed away -- we never saw him more.
Could such a man sink in the sea unknown? Nay, he had found a land with something rich, That kept his eyes turned inland for his life.
'A damn bad sailor and a landshark too, No good in port or out' -- my granddad said.
Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

Birthday (Autobiography)

 Seventy years ago my mother labored to bear me,
A twelve-pound baby with a big head,
Her first, it was plain torture.
Finally they used the forceps And dragged me out, with one prong In my right eye, and slapped and banged me until I breathed.
I am not particularly grateful for it.
As to the eye: it remained invalid and now has a cataract.
It can see gods and spirits in its cloud, And the weird end of the world: the left one's for common daylight.
As to my mother: A rather beautiful young woman married to a grim clergyman Twenty-two years older than she: She had her little innocent diversions, her little travels in Europe— And once for scandal kissed the Pope's ring— Perhaps her life was no emptier than other lives.
Both parents Swim in my blood and distort my thought but the old man's welcome.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Female of the Species

 1911

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale -- The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise, -- Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger --- Doubt and Pity oft perplex Him in dealing with an issue -- to the scandal of The Sex! But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same, And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity -- must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions -- not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unchained to claim Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.
She is wedded to convictions -- in default of grosser ties; Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! -- He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.
Unprovoked and awful charges -- even so the she-bear fights, Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons -- even so the cobra bites, Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw And the victim writhes in anguish -- like the Jesuit with the squaw! So it cames that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare nat leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands To some God of Abstract Justice -- which no woman understands.
And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him Must command but may not govern -- shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
Written by John Trumbull | Create an image from this poem

To Ladies Of A Certain Age

 Ye ancient Maids, who ne'er must prove
The early joys of youth and love,
Whose names grim Fate (to whom 'twas given,
When marriages were made in heaven)
Survey'd with unrelenting scowl,
And struck them from the muster-roll;
Or set you by, in dismal sort,
For wintry bachelors to court;
Or doom'd to lead your faded lives,
Heirs to the joys of former wives;
Attend! nor fear in state forlorn,
To shun the pointing hand of scorn,
Attend, if lonely age you dread,
And wish to please, or wish to wed.
When beauties lose their gay appearance, And lovers fall from perseverance, When eyes grow dim and charms decay, And all your roses fade away, First know yourselves; lay by those airs, Which well might suit your former years, Nor ape in vain the childish mien, And airy follies of sixteen.
We pardon faults in youth's gay flow, While beauty prompts the cheek to glow, While every glance has power to warm, And every turn displays a charm, Nor view a spot in that fair face, Which smiles inimitable grace.
But who, unmoved with scorn, can see The grey coquette's affected glee, Her ambuscading tricks of art To catch the beau's unthinking heart, To check th' assuming fopling's vows, The bridling frown of wrinkled brows; Those haughty airs of face and mind, Departed beauty leaves behind.
Nor let your sullen temper show Spleen louring on the envious brow, The jealous glance of rival rage, The sourness and the rust of age.
With graceful ease, avoid to wear The gloom of disappointed care: And oh, avoid the sland'rous tongue, By malice tuned, with venom hung, That blast of virtue and of fame, That herald to the court of shame; Less dire the croaking raven's throat, Though death's dire omens swell the note.
Contented tread the vale of years, Devoid of malice, guilt and fears; Let soft good humour, mildly gay, Gild the calm evening of your day, And virtue, cheerful and serene, In every word and act be seen.
Virtue alone with lasting grace, Embalms the beauties of the face, Instructs the speaking eye to glow, Illumes the cheek and smooths the brow, Bids every look the heart engage, Nor fears the wane of wasting age.
Nor think these charms of face and air, The eye so bright, the form so fair, This light that on the surface plays, Each coxcomb fluttering round its blaze, Whose spell enchants the wits of beaux, The only charms, that heaven bestows.
Within the mind a glory lies, O'erlook'd and dim to vulgar eyes; Immortal charms, the source of love, Which time and lengthen'd years improve, Which beam, with still increasing power, Serene to life's declining hour; Then rise, released from earthly cares, To heaven, and shine above the stars.
Thus might I still these thoughts pursue, The counsel wise, and good, and true, In rhymes well meant and serious lay, While through the verse in sad array, Grave truths in moral garb succeed: Yet who would mend, for who would read? But when the force of precept fails, A sad example oft prevails.
Beyond the rules a sage exhibits, Thieves heed the arguments of gibbets, And for a villain's quick conversion, A pillory can outpreach a parson.
To thee, Eliza, first of all, But with no friendly voice I call.
Advance with all thine airs sublime, Thou remnant left of ancient time! Poor mimic of thy former days, Vain shade of beauty, once in blaze! We view thee, must'ring forth to arms The veteran relics of thy charms; The artful leer, the rolling eye, The trip genteel, the heaving sigh, The labour'd smile, of force too weak, Low dimpling in th' autumnal cheek, The sad, funereal frown, that still Survives its power to wound or kill; Or from thy looks, with desperate rage, Chafing the sallow hue of age, And cursing dire with rueful faces, The repartees of looking-glasses.
Now at tea-table take thy station, Those shambles vile of reputation, Where butcher'd characters and stale Are day by day exposed for sale: Then raise the floodgates of thy tongue, And be the peal of scandal rung; While malice tunes thy voice to rail, And whispering demons prompt the tale-- Yet hold thy hand, restrain thy passion, Thou cankerworm of reputation; Bid slander, rage and envy cease, For one short interval of peace; Let other's faults and crimes alone, Survey thyself and view thine own; Search the dark caverns of thy mind, Or turn thine eyes and look behind: For there to meet thy trembling view, With ghastly form and grisly hue, And shrivel'd hand, that lifts sublime The wasting glass and scythe of Time, A phantom stands: his name is Age; Ill-nature following as his page.
While bitter taunts and scoffs and jeers, And vexing cares and torturing fears, Contempt that lifts the haughty eye, And unblest solitude are nigh; While conscious pride no more sustains, Nor art conceals thine inward pains, And haggard vengeance haunts thy name, And guilt consigns thee o'er to shame, Avenging furies round thee wait, And e'en thy foes bewail thy fate.
But see, with gentler looks and air, Sophia comes.
Ye youths beware! Her fancy paints her still in prime, Nor sees the moving hand of time; To all her imperfections blind, Hears lovers sigh in every wind, And thinks her fully ripen'd charms, Like Helen's, set the world in arms.
Oh, save it but from ridicule, How blest the state, to be a fool! The bedlam-king in triumph shares The bliss of crowns, without the cares; He views with pride-elated mind, His robe of tatters trail behind; With strutting mien and lofty eye, He lifts his crabtree sceptre high; Of king's prerogative he raves, And rules in realms of fancied slaves.
In her soft brain, with madness warm, Thus airy throngs of lovers swarm.
She takes her glass; before her eyes Imaginary beauties rise; Stranger till now, a vivid ray Illumes each glance and beams like day; Till furbish'd every charm anew, An angel steps abroad to view; She swells her pride, assumes her power, And bids the vassal world adore.
Indulge thy dream.
The pictured joy No ruder breath should dare destroy; No tongue should hint, the lover's mind Was ne'er of virtuoso-kind, Through all antiquity to roam For what much fairer springs at home.
No wish should blast thy proud design; The bliss of vanity be thine.
But while the subject world obey, Obsequious to thy sovereign sway, Thy foes so feeble and so few, With slander what hadst thou to do? What demon bade thine anger rise? What demon glibb'd thy tongue with lies? What demon urged thee to provoke Avenging satire's deadly stroke? Go, sink unnoticed and unseen, Forgot, as though thou ne'er hadst been.
Oblivion's long projected shade In clouds hangs dismal o'er thy head.
Fill the short circle of thy day, Then fade from all the world away; Nor leave one fainting trace behind, Of all that flutter'd once and shined; The vapoury meteor's dancing light Deep sunk and quench'd in endless night


Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Aftermath

 Compelled by calamity's magnet
They loiter and stare as if the house
Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought
Some scandal might any minute ooze
From a smoke-choked closet into light;
No deaths, no prodigious injuries
Glut these hunters after an old meat,
Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies.
Mother Medea in a green smock Moves humbly as any housewife through Her ruined apartments, taking stock Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery: Cheated of the pyre and the rack, The crowd sucks her last tear and turns away.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

An Old Song

 So long as 'neath the Kalka hills
 The tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
 The hard-held ponies swing,
So long as Tara Devi sees
 The lights of Simla town,
So long as Pleasure calls us up,
 Or Duty drivese us down,
 If you love me as I love you
 What pair so happy as we two?

So long as Aces take the King,
 Or backers take the bet,
So long as debt leads men to wed,
 Or marriage leads to debt,
So long as little luncheons, Love,
 And scandal hold their vogue,
While there is sport at Annandale
 Or whisky at Jutogh,
 If you love me as I love you
 What knife can cut our love in two?

So long as down the rocking floor
 The raving polka spins,
So long as Kitchen Lancers spur
 The maddened violins,
So long as through the whirling smoke
 We hear the oft-told tale --
"Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,"
 And Whatshername for sale?
 If you love me as I love you
 We'll play the game and win it too.
So long as Lust or Lucre tempt Straight riders from the course, So long as with each drink we pour Black brewage of Remorse, So long as those unloaded guns We keep beside the bed, Blow off, by obvious accident, The lucky owner's head, If you love me as I love you What can Life kill of Death undo? So long as Death 'twixt dance and dance Chills best and bravest blood, And drops the reckless rider down The rotten, rain-soaked khud, So long as rumours from the North Make loving wives afraid, So long as Burma takes the boy Or typhoid kills the maid, If you love me as I love you What knife can cut our love in two? By all that lights our daily life Or works our lifelong woe, From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs And those grim glades below, Where, heedless of the flying hoof And clamour overhead, Sleep, with the grey langur for guard Our very scornful Dead, If you love me as I love you All Earth is servant to us two! By Docket, Billetdoux, and File, By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir, By Fan and Sword and Office-box, By Corset, Plume, and Spur By Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War, By Women, Work, and Bills, By all the life that fizzes in The everlasting Hills, If you love me as I love you What pair so happy as we two?
Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | Create an image from this poem

Massachusetts To Virginia

 The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern way,
Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay:
No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal,
Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's steel,

No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways go;
Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow;
And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their errands far,
A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are spread for war.
We hear thy threats, Virginia! thy stormy words and high Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt along our sky; Yet not one brown, hard hand foregoes its honest labor here, No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in fear.
Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St.
George's bank; Cold on the shores of Labrador the fog lies white and dank; Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout are the hearts which man The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of Cape Ann.
The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy forms, Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or wrestling with the storms; Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the waves they roam, They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky home.
What means the Old Dominion? Hath she forgot the day When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's steel array? How, side by side with sons of hers, the Massachusetts men Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout Cornwallis, then? Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Faneuil Hall? When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came pulsing on each breath Of Northern winds the thrilling sounds of 'Liberty or Death!' What asks the Old Dominion? If now her sons have proved False to their fathers' memory, false to the faith they loved; If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great charter spurn, Must we of Massachusetts from truth and duty turn? We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery's hateful hell; Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhound's yell; We gather, at your summons, above our fathers' graves, From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your wretched slaves! Thank God! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow; The spirit of her early time is with her even now; Dream not because her Pilgrim blood moves slow and calm and cool, She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and tool! All that a sister State should do, all that a free State may, Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in our early day; But that one dark loathsome burden ye must stagger with alone, And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown! Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and burden God's free air With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and manhood's wild despair; Cling closer to the 'cleaving curse' that writes upon your plains The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of chains.
Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of old, By watching round the shambles where human flesh is sold; Gloat o'er the new-born child, and count his market value, when The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the slaver's den! Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginia name; Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with rankest weeds of shame; Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universe; We wash our hands forever of your sin and shame and curse.
A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's shrine hath been, Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's mountain men: The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering still In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill.
And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for his prey Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's shaft of gray, How, through the free lips of the son, the father's warning spoke; How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim city broke! A hundred thousand right arms were lifted up on high, A hundred thousand voices sent back their loud reply; Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling summons rang, And up from bench and loom and wheel her young mechanics sprang! The voice of free, broad Middlesex, of thousands as of one, The shaft of Bunker calling to that Lexington; From Norfolk's ancient villages, from Plymouth's rocky bound To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close to her round; From rich and rural Worcester, where through the calm repose Of cultured vales and fringing woods the gentle Nashua flows, To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the mountain larches stir, Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry of 'God save Latimer!' And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with the salt sea spray; And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narragansett Bay! Along the broad Connecticut old Hampden felt the thrill, And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen swept down from Holyoke Hill.
The voice of Massachusetts! Of her free sons and daughters, Deep calling unto deep aloud, the sound of many waters! Against the burden of that voice what tyrant power shall stand? No fetters in the Bay State! No slave upon her land! Look to it well, Virginians! In calmness we have borne, In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and your scorn; You've spurned our kindest counsels; you've hunted for our lives; And shaken round our hearths and homes your manacles and gyves! We wage no war, we lift no arm, we fling no torch within The fire-damps of the quaking mine beneath your soil of sin; We leave ye with your bondmen, to wrestle, while ye can, With the strong upward tendencies and God-like soul of man! But for us and for our children, the vow which we have given For freedom and humanity is registered in heaven; No slave-hunt in our borders, - no pirate on our strand! No fetters in the Bay State, - no slave upon our land!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

87. The Twa Dogs

 ’TWAS 1 in that place o’ Scotland’s isle,
That bears the name o’ auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin’ thro’ the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.
The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, Was keepit for His Honor’s pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar; But though he was o’ high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev’n wi’ al tinkler-gipsy’s messin: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie, But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him, An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
The tither was a ploughman’s collie— A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him, And in freak had Luath ca’d him, After some dog in Highland Sang, 2 Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face Aye gat him friends in ilka place; His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, And unco pack an’ thick thegither; Wi’ social nose whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit; Whiles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit; Whiles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion, An’ worry’d ither in diversion; Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown Upon a knowe they set them down.
An’ there began a lang digression.
About the “lords o’ the creation.
” CÆSAR I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, What way poor bodies liv’d ava.
Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents: He rises when he likes himsel’; His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; He draws a bonie silken purse, As lang’s my tail, where, thro’ the steeks, The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e’en, it’s nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie, That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner, Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant-man His Honour has in a’ the lan’: An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it’s past my comprehension.
LUATH Trowth, C&æsar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh: A cottar howkin in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, an’ sic like; Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans, An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape.
An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger: But how it comes, I never kent yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is.
CÆSAR But then to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit! Lord man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinkin brock.
I’ve notic’d, on our laird’s court-day,— An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,— Poor tenant bodies, scant o’cash, How they maun thole a factor’s snash; He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble, An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! LUATH They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think.
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink, They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, The view o’t gives them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They’re aye in less or mair provided: An’ tho’ fatigued wi’ close employment, A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o’ their lives, Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a’ their fire-side.
An’ whiles twalpennie worth o’ nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy: They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs; They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests, Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts, Or tell what new taxation’s comin, An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.
As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, rantin kirns, When rural life, of ev’ry station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.
That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win’s; The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi’ right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro’ the house— My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.
Still it’s owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play’d; There’s mony a creditable stock O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root an’ branch, Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi’ some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, For Britain’s guid his saul indentin— CÆSAR Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him: An’ saying ay or no’s they bid him: At operas an’ plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl, To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father’s auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: Then bowses drumlie German-water, To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter, An’ clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain’s guid! for her destruction! Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction.
LUATH Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themsels wi’ country sports, It wad for ev’ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o’ their timmer, Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer, Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk, But will ye tell me, Master C&æsar, Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, The very thought o’t need na fear them.
CÆSAR L—d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat: They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a’ their colleges an’ schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsel’s to vex them; An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh, His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel; But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, Wi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy; Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless.
An’ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races, Their galloping through public places, There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party-matches, Then sowther a’ in deep debauches.
Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring, Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard, An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman; But this is gentry’s life in common.
By this, the sun was out of sight, An’ darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan; When up they gat an’ shook their lugs, Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs; An’ each took aff his several way, Resolv’d to meet some ither day.
Note 1.
Luath was Burns’ own dog.
[back] Note 2.
Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.
”—R.
B.
[back]
Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem

Kinky

 They decide to exchange heads.
Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin over Ken's bulging neck socket.
His wide jaw line jostles atop his girlfriend's body, loosely, like one of those novelty dogs destined to gaze from the back windows of cars.
The two dolls chase each other around the orange Country Camper unsure what they'll do when they're within touching distance.
Ken wants to feel Barbie's toes between his lips, take off one of her legs and force his whole arm inside her.
With only the vaguest suggestion of genitals, all the alluring qualities they possess as fashion dolls, up until now, have done neither of them much good.
But suddenly Barbie is excited looking at her own body under the weight of Ken's face.
He is part circus freak, part thwarted hermaphrodite.
And she is imagining she is somebody else-- maybe somebody middle class and ordinary, maybe another teenage model being caught in a scandal.
The night had begun with Barbie getting angry at finding Ken's blow up doll, folded and stuffed under the couch.
He was defensive and ashamed, especially about not having the breath to inflate her.
But after a round of pretend-tears, Barbie and Ken vowed to try to make their relationship work.
With their good memories as sustaining as good food, they listened to late-night radio talk shows, one featuring Doctor Ruth.
When all else fails, just hold each other, the small sex therapist crooned.
Barbie and Ken, on cue, groped in the dark, their interchangeable skin glowing, the color of Band-Aids.
Then, they let themselves go-- Soon Barbie was begging Ken to try on her spandex miniskirt.
She showed him how to pivot as though he was on a runway.
Ken begged to tie Barbie onto his yellow surfboard and spin her on the kitcen table until she grew dizzy.
Anything, anything, they both said to the other's requests, their mirrored desires bubbling from the most unlikely places.
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