Written by
Hilaire Belloc |
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the bedding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.
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Written by
Yves Bonnefoy |
I woke up, it was the house where I was born,
Sea foam splashed against the rock,
Not a single bird, only the wind to open and close the wave,
Everywhere on the horizon the smell of ashes,
As if the hills were hiding a fire
That somewhere else was burning up a universe.
I went onto the veranda, the table was set,
The water knocked against the legs of the table, the sideboard.
And yet she had to come in, the faceless one,
The one I knew was shaking the door
In the hall, near the darkened staircase, but in vain,
So high had the water already risen in the room.
I took the handle, it was hard to turn,
I could almost hear the noises of the other shore,
The laughter of the children playing in the tall grass,
The games of the others, always the others, in their joy.
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
On the wide veranda white,
In the purple failing light,
Sits the master while the sun is lowly burning;
And his dreamy thoughts are drowned
In the softly flowing sound
Of the corn-songs of the field-hands slow returning.
Oh, we hoe de co'n
Since de ehly mo'n;
Now de sinkin' sun
Says de day is done.
O'er the fields with heavy tread,
Light of heart and high of head,
Though the halting steps be labored, slow, and weary;
Still the spirits brave and strong
Find a comforter in song,
And their corn-song rises ever loud and cheery.
Oh, we hoe de co'n
Since de ehly mo'n;
Now de sinkin' sun
Says de day is done.
To the master in his seat,
Comes the burden, full and sweet,
Of the mellow minor music growing clearer,
As the toilers raise the hymn,
Thro' the silence dusk and dim,
To the cabin's restful shelter drawing nearer.
Oh, we hoe de co'n
Since de ehly mo'n;
Now de sinkin' sun
Says de day is done.
And a tear is in the eye
Of the master sitting by,
As he listens to the echoes low-replying
To the music's fading calls
As it faints away and falls
Into silence, deep within the cabin dying.
Oh, we hoe de co'n
Since de ehly mo'n;
Now de sinkin' sun
[Pg 60]Says de day is done.
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Written by
Robert Louis Stevenson |
GO(D) knows, my Martial, if we two could be
To enjoy our days set wholly free;
To the true life together bend our mind,
And take a furlough from the falser kind.
No rich saloon, nor palace of the great,
Nor suit at law should trouble our estate;
On no vainglorious statues should we look,
But of a walk, a talk, a little book,
Baths, wells and meads, and the veranda shade,
Let all our travels and our toils be made.
Now neither lives unto himself, alas!
And the good suns we see, that flash and pass
And perish; and the bell that knells them cries:
"Another gone: O when will ye arise?"
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Written by
Russell Edson |
A huge shoe mounts up from the horizon,
squealing and grinding forward on small wheels,
even as a man sitting to breakfast on his veranda
is suddenly engulfed in a great shadow, almost
the size of the night . . .
He looks up and sees a huge shoe
ponderously mounting out of the earth.
Up in the unlaced ankle-part an old woman
stands at a helm behind the great tongue curled
forward; the thick laces dragging like ships' rope
on the ground as the huge thing squeals and
grinds forward; children everywhere, they look
from the shoelace holes, they crowd about the
old woman, even as she pilots this huge shoe
over the earth . . .
Soon the huge shoe is descending the
opposite horizon, a monstrous snail squealing
and grinding into the earth . . .
The man turns to his breakfast again, but sees
it's been wounded, the yolk of one of his eggs is
bleeding . . .
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Written by
Russell Edson |
A butler asks, will Madam be having her morning coffee
alfresco?
If you would be so good as to lift me out of my bed to
the veranda I would be more than willing to imbibe coffee
alfresco.
Shall I ask the Master to join you for coffee alfresco,
Madam?
But my nightgown's so sheer he might see my pubic delta
alfresco. And being a woman of wealth I have the loins of a
goddess. While you, being but a servant, have the loins of a
child's teddy bear. Yes, have the Master join the alfresco
moment. He might just as well be informed of my pubic delta,
it's not a state secret. Besides, because of his wealth he
bears the organ of a bull, while you, being but a lowly
servant, have the loins of a toy.
Very good, Madam . . .
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Written by
Omer Tarin |
Tonight on the veranda
I behold
The crystalline hilltops
Sublimate into an avalanche
Of snowflakes, in turn
Dissolving into the haze
Of silent mists;
Trees stand frozen
Like stiff soldiers
Mantled in unstirring ranks
Braced for some dire consequence
Ill-defined;
A wolf’s eldritch howl
Echoes
And night-birds trill their alarm
As the sickle moon
Glides away behind its many veils;
Owl-flights haunt
My dreams now
And your long green hair
Bewilders me with witchcraft.
(Omer Tarin, Selected Poems, 2005)
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