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Through The Wood
THROUGH the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood,
Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago;
Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood
In my heart reflected, because I loved you so.
Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood,
I alone went lonely no later than last year,
What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood,
Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere?
Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood,
Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey,
You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood
All our own--and withered as ever a flower of May.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sea-Saw (more writing fun)
If I saw a wood boat afloat
Upon the sea,
Would what I see possibly be
The wood I cut from a tree?
For when I saw a tree
I would like to think I see,
What the wood I saw
Could be.
If all I saw in wood from a tree
Was all I saw that there was to see,
Would what I did saw
Be the wood that I now see?
And if the wood I once did saw
Was indeed made into that ship on the sea,
Would it even be possible to know that here what I see
Is the wood once sawed by me?
All I here would dare to share is:
I see what I saw, and I saw what I see,
And therefore the wood I do saw could one day be
The boat I may see, afloat upon the sea.
See?
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Banking Coal
Whoever it was who brought the first wood and coal
To start the Fire, did his part well;
Not all wood takes to fire from a match,
Nor coal from wood before it’s burned to charcoal.
The wood and coal in question caught a flame
And flared up beautifully, touching the air
That takes a flame from anything.
Somehow the fire was furnaced,
And then the time was ripe for some to say,
“Right banking of the furnace saves the coal.”
I’ve seen them set to work, each in his way,
Though all with shovels and with ashes,
Never resting till the fire seemed most dead;
Whereupon they’d crawl in hooded night-caps
Contentedly to bed. Sometimes the fire left alone
Would die, but like as not spiced tongues
Remaining by the hardest on till day would flicker up,
Never strong, to anyone who cared to rake for them.
But roaring fires never have been made that way.
I’d like to tell those folks that one grand flare
Transferred to memory tissues of the air
Is worth a like, or, for dull minds that turn in gold,
All money ever saved by banking coal.
poem by Jean Toomer
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Don't cry hurra! till your are over the hedge (till you are out of the wood).
Knock On Wood
I dont want to lose the good thing that Ive got
If I do, I will surely, I will lose a lot
For your love is better than any love other Ive know
Its like thunder, lightning
The way you love me is frightening
I better knock on wood
Baby
I got superstitious about you, but I cant take change
You got me spinning, baby, spinning in a trance
But your love is better than any other love Ive known
Its like thunder, lightning
The way you love me is frightening
You better knock on wood
Its no secret, but that woman fills my lovin cup
She sees, so ready, that I get enough
And her love is better than any other love Ive known
Its like thunder
Its like lightning
The way you love me is frightening
I better knock on wood
Baby
Better, yes, better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) yes, I better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) oh, knock on wood
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) you know I would, would
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) its no secret
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) no, oh, better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) hangin above me
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) I cant leave her
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) oh no, baby
Knock on wood, woo!
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alumni Hall
surrounded by old wood
you breathe wood
and you feel the wood
breathing you too
all around you
in deep sleep
the past comes still dreaming of you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Till I Go Down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Ive already seen the lies
On the faces of the men of war
Leading people to the killing floor
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
No no
Till I go down
Till the world stops spinning around
Till Im six feet under the ground
Till theres no sound
Till theres no pain
Im gonna swing this chain
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my mouth
Im for the truth to come out
About the leader with the iron will
And his allegiance to the dollar bill
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Till I go down
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My dad lived till he was 78, my mum was in her 80s, and I've got two uncles who are in their 90s now.
Do not halloo till you are out of the wood.
Later Tonight
You wait till later
till later tonight
You wait till later, till later
till later tonight
That boy never cast a look in your direction
Never tried to hook for your affection
Dresses like the mod of your invention, tall and proud
He is the head boy of the school of thought
That plays in your intentions, night and day
And you wait till later
till later tonight
You wait till later, till later
till later tonight
And you wait till later
till later tonight
You wait till later, till later
till later tonight
cause tonight always comes
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Variations on a Theme by Joyce
The war is in words and the wood is the world
That turns beneath our rootless feet;
the vines that reach, alive and snarled,
Across the path where the sand is swirled,
Twist in the night. The light lies flat.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.
The rain is ruin and our ruin rides
The swiftest winds; the wood is whorled
And turned and smoothed by the turning tides.
--There is rain in the woods, slow rain that breeds
The war in the words. The wood is the world.
This rain is ruin and our ruin rides.
The war is in words and the wood is the world,
Sourceless and seized and forever filled
With green vine twisting on wood more gnarled
Than dead men's hands. The vines are curled
Around these branches, crushed and killed.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.
poem by Weldon Kees
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The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play-
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood-
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.
Over the river, and through the wood-
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!
poem by Lydia Maria Francis Child
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It Came Into My Mind
it came into my mind what she started as a riddle.
syllables of life.
and of the seasons.
nine syllables for her till blooming till wilting
of the chrysanthemum, those which are not so white
against the snowy mountain of Fuji
two syllables for her brief stay in the woods
when she comes back as part of the wood itself
the twigs mourn for her
the leaves do not sing and the river stops flowing.
i ask myself, now that i have learned what syllables stand for.
how many syllables do i need to love you completely?
i have only one for you. The rest shall be my lies.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rowers Chant
Row till the land dip 'neath
The sea from view.
Row till a land peep up,
A home for you.
Row till the mast sing songs
Welcome and sweet.
Row till the waves, out-stripped,
Give up dead beat.
Row till the sea-nymphs rise
To ask you why
Rowing you tarry not
To hear them sigh.
Row till the stars grow bright
Like certain eyes.
Row till the noon be high
As hopes you prize.
Row till you harbour in
All longing's port.
Row till you find all things
For which you sought.
poem by Thomas Sturge Moore
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The Rower's Chant
ROW till the land dip 'neath
The sea from view.
Row till a land peep up,
A home for you.
Row till the mast sing songs
Welcome and sweet,
Row till the waves, outstripped,
Give up, dead beat.
Row till the sea-nymphs rise
To ask you why
Rowing you tarry not
To hear them sigh.
Row till the stars grow bright
Like certain eyes.
Row till the noon be high
As hopes you prize.
Row till you harbour in
All longing's port.
Row till you find all things
For which you sought.
poem by Thomas Sturge Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From Citron-Bower
From citron-bower be her bed,
cut from branch of tree a-flower,
fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue,
cut the width of board and lathe,
carve the feet from myrtle-wood.
Let the palings of her bed
be quince and box-wood overlaid
with the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming,
may calm her heart and cool her blood,
for losing of her maidenhood.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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Choppin' Wood
(Van Morrison)
You wired the trains and went back home to St. Claire's shores
Before you became a spark down at the yard
You were passing through those hungry years alone
You were just trying to make a living out in Detroit
When you came back off the boats you didn't want to go anywhere
You sit down to TV in your favourite chair
You watch the big picture fade away down at Harland and Wolff
But you still kept on choppin' wood
And you came back home to Belfast
So you could be with us like
You lived your life of quiet desperation on the side
Going to the shipyard in the morning on your bike
Well the spark was gone but you carried on
You always did the best you could
You sent for us once but everything fell through
But you still kept on choppin' wood choppin' wood
Well you came back home to Belfast
So you could be with us like
And you lived a life of quiet desperation on the side
Going to the shipyard in the morning on your bike
WeIl the spark was gone but you carried on
Well you did just the best that you could
You sent for us one time but everything fell through
But you still kept on choppin' wood
Kept on choppin'wood
Kept on choppin' wood
Local man chops wood
You know you did the best you could
Well everything just fell through
Kept on choppin' wood
Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop,
Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop,
Chop, chop, chop, keep on choppin'
Chop, chop, chop, choppin' wood
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Shade Of The Green Wood
In the shade of the green wood
The holly does grow,
While in soft rays of sunlight
The wild roses glow,
And I smell their sweet perfume
That gently floats by,
Past trees strong and mighty
That reach to the sky,
The pathway of gold autumn
Leaves still remain,
As I walk through the green wood again.
In the shade of the green wood
This bright sunny morn,
That's so cool in the shadows
A new day is born,
All the birds in the treetops
Are singing for me,
Sweet songs of the summer
Which fill me with glee,
And know from its beauty
I never shall part,
For the green wood does live in my heart.
In the shade of the green wood
A soft gentle breeze,
Now caresses the branches
And whispers through trees,
A sound reassuring
Shall carry me to,
All the scenes that exist
In each marvellous view,
It's here that my spirit
Shall always now stay,
And the green wood is guiding my way.
poem by Andrew Blakemore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Path
RUNNING along a bank, a parapet
That saves from the precipitous wood below
The level road, there is a path. It serves
Children for looking down the long smooth steep,
Between the legs of beech and yew, to where
A fallen tree checks the sight: while men and women
Content themselves with the road and what they see
Over the bank, and what the children tell.
The path, winding like silver, trickles on,
Bordered and even invaded by thinnest moss
That tries to cover roots and crumbling chalk
With gold, olive, and emerald, but in vain.
The children wear it. They have flattened the bank
On top, and silvered it between the moss
With the current of their feet, year after year.
But the road is houseless, and leads not to school.
To see a child is rare there, and the eye
Has but the road, the wood that overhangs
And underyawns it, and the path that looks
As if it led on to some legendary
Or fancied place where men have wished to go
And stay; till, sudden, it ends where the wood ends.
poem by Edward Thomas
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The Wood of Flowers
I went to the Wood of Flowers
(No one was with me):
I was there alone for hours.
I was happy as could be
In the Wood of Flowers.
There was grass on the ground,
There were buds on the tree,
And the wind had a sound
Of such gaiety,
That I was as happy
As happy could be,
In the Wood of Flowers.
poem by James Stephens
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