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A Youth of Janice Bronwyn Linden era and of 1976
The difference between a youth of Janice Bronwyn Linden era
And the youth of 1976
1976 Their daily bread was not yet sovereignty
And singing not yet uhuru
They heard a smell of injustice in old uniform
Rebellious against it everywhere and anywere!
They fought injustice with their lives
they fought every inhuman out of human
A youth of Janice Bronwyn Linden era
They sing not yet developed
And they have a freedom in their lifetime.
The streets are as they where in 1976
And the dust is still unsettled.
I sense a feeling of corruption, maqhabane!
Unruly against all those championing liberation
And defy them against all odds!
The class of 1976 died for justice
And youth Janice Bronwyn Linden dies for injustice.
A justice in injustice uniform.
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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My Orcha'd In Linden Lea
'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle over head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush their zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vo'k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish measter;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teake agean my hwomeward road
To where, vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
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My Orcha'd in Linden Lea
'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle auver head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' ther vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush ther zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, auver head,
Wi' fruit vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vo'k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish measter;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teake agean my hwomeward road
To where vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
poem by William Barnes
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Linden Arden Stole The Highlights
Linden arden stole the highlights --
With one hand tied behind his back --
Loved the morning sun, and whiskey
Ran like water in his veins
Loved to go to church on sunday
Even though he was a drinking man
When the boys came to san francisco
They were looking for his life
But he found out where they were drinking
Met them face to face outside
Cleaved their heads off with a hatchet
Lord, he was a drinkin man
And when someone tried to get above him
He just took the law into his own hands
Linden arden stole the highlights
And they put his fingers through the glass
He had heard all those stories many, many times before
And he did not know nor care to ask
And he loved the little children like they were his very own
You say, someday it may get lonely.
Now hes livin, livin with a gun
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hohenlinden
On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
And redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Ah! few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
poem by Thomas Campbell
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I challenge myself everywhere, onstage, on the golf course. Hey, isn't that the point of it all? To keep getting better? Otherwise why do it?
quote by Hal Linden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wish [Dorinţa]
Come into the lovely forest
Where the spring flows with much ease
And the meadows, cut by furrows,
Are concealed by many trees.
And into my arms come running
On my chest fall and don't speak,
I shall seize your veil, my darling,
And I'll lift it from your cheek.
On my knees you'll sit in silence
We shall be alone and free,
On your hair will fall then slowly
Flowers from the linden tree.
Your blonde hair and your pale forehead
Do lay softly on my arm,
Giving to my mouth, with pleasure,
Your sweet lips so full of charm.
We shall dream some happy visions
And a song will hum with ease
All the springs, hidden and lonely,
And the gentle summer breeze.
The sweet harmony will lull us,
While the forest, full of love,
Will let fall on us small flowers
From the linden tree above.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Tribute to Thomas Campbell 1777-1804
On Linden when the sun was low.
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow
and dark as winter was the flow
of Iser rolling rapidly.
Thomas Campbell
1777-1804.
On Linden when the sun was low.
On a dark day long, long ago.
Before combatants struck a blow
the scene was all serenity.
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow.
It’s pristine whitenesss soon to go
when scarlet blood began to flow.
as warriors fought the enemy.
And dark as winter was the flow
of hatreds milling to and fro
each soldiers sought to kill his foe
with casual ferocity.
Of Iser rolling rapidly
though stained by blood from the melee
there’s little said. It’s plain to me
it ignores mans stupidity.
7-Feb-08
Glosa
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I hadn't really noticed that I had a hearing problem. I just thought most people had given up on speaking clearly.
quote by Hal Linden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When solving a "panic" you must first ask yourself what you were doing that could possibly frighten an operating system.
quote by Peter van der Linden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A German Student’s Funeral Hymn
WITH steady march across the daisy meadow,
And by the churchyard wall we go;
But leave behind, beneath the linden shadow,
One, who no more will rise and go:
Farewell, our brother, here sleeping in dust,
Till thou shalt wake again, wake with the just.
Along the street where neighbor nods to neighbor,
Along the busy street we throng,
Once more to laugh, to live and love and labor,--
But he will be remembered long:
Sleep well, our brother, though sleeping in dust:
Shalt thou not rise again--rise with the just?
Farewell, true heart and kindly hand, left lying
Where wave the linden branches calm;
'T is his to live, and ours to wait for dying,
We win, while he has won, the palm;
Farewell, our brother! But one day, we trust,
Call--he will answer Thee, God of the just.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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I rarely repeat playing the same role in a show. I figured I'd plumbed 90 percent the first time around, so let's move on to something where I'm starting from scratch.
quote by Hal Linden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Real Property
Tell me about that harvest field.
Oh! Fifty acres of living bread.
The colour has painted itself in my heart;
The form is patterned in my head.
So now I take it everywhere,
See it whenever I look round;
Hear it growing through every sound,
Know exactly the sound it makes —
Remembering, as one must all day,
Under the pavement the live earth aches.
Trees are at the farther end,
Limes all full of the mumbling bee:
So there must be a harvest field
Whenever one thinks of a linden tree.
A hedge is about it, very tall,
Hazy and cool, and breathing sweet.
Round paradise is such a wall,
And all the day, in such a way,
In paradise the wild birds call.
You only need to close your eyes
And go within your secret mind,
And you'll be into paradise:
I've learnt quite easily to find
Some linden trees and drowsy bees,
A tall sweet hedge with the corn behind.
I will not have that harvest mown:
I'll keep the corn and leave the bread.
I've bought that field; it's now my own:
I've fifty acres in my head.
I take it as a dream to bed.
I carry it about all day....
Sometimes when I have found a friend
I give a blade of corn away.
poem by Harold Monro
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The Preference Declared
Boy, I detest the Persian pomp;
I hate those linden-bark devices;
And as for roses, holy Moses!
They can't be got at living prices!
Myrtle is good enough for us,--
For you, as bearer of my flagon;
For me, supine beneath this vine,
Doing my best to get a jag on!
poem by Eugene Field
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Boy running in the rain...
His face swinging from ear to ear
A bemused smile lighting up
his gander gait
under the burlap mop
Who's looking at me
Why is everyone looking at my legs
His mother telling him to be back this summer
before the green peacocks turn to Indian blue
Droplets big as his nightshade eyes bursting at each
swan step
Boy on an errand
The stealthy guilt-ridden leaves of the linden
Motionless in the metallic green boiling flood
Boy still running in the rain
How old am I
As old as the linden when it was eight
Where are the caterwauling magpies this day
None to mock me in my gait
He thinks he's running in the still hot rain
But the cars and trucks along the road shower
In their mindless manic main
Wait till you see my master drive me proud
Over the bridges under high-voltaging cables
My throat loosening up in coughs and curses
The mud drained from my tired gables
Boy still keeps running in the rain
When will the summer end
When the cotton sky turns to lead
Or when the boy stops running in the rain
(©: T. Wignesan July 13,2011 - Thursday, August 4,2011 - Poetry Page: A Long Story Short Website 'Poem of the Month', August 2011.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Linden Avenue
A house of unimagined beauty
Is set in parkland, cool and dark;
Gates with an arch; then meadows, hillocks,
And oats and woods beyond the park.
Here, with their crowns each other hiding,
Enormous linden trees engage
In dusky, quiet celebration
Of their two hundred years of age.
And underneath their vaulted branches,
Across the regularly drawn
Symmetric avenues, grow flowers
In flower-beds upon a lawn.
Beneath the trees, on sandy pathways,
Not one bright spot relieves the dark,
Save-like an opening in a tunnel-
The distant entrance of the park.
But now the blossom-time is starting,
The walled-in linden trees reveal
And spread about within their shadow
Their irresistible appeal.
The visitors, in summer clothing,
While walking on the crunchy sand,
Breathe in unfathomable fragrance
Which only bees can understand.
This gripping scent is theme and subject,
Whereas-however well they look-
The flower-beds, the lawn, the garden,
Are but the cover of a book.
The clustered, wax-bespattered flowers
On massive trees, sedate and old,
Lit up by raindrops, burn and sparkle
Above the mansion they enfold.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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Copy & Paste
Of course it was copy and paste like honey and lemon drop.
A gleam of humor coming from skies to my beloved eden.
Assure that stich coming from a different heaven.
Of course it is not copy nor paste like lime and linden tea.
poem by Tansel Bozkurt
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The Birds That Flocked Together
See, the birds gather!
The birds of a feather!
They're flocking together;
Singing together,
Playing together!
The big ones and the wees
Atop the linden trees.
With mirth and lively zings,
They splay their splashy wings!
Oh, how they revel in the sun,
Making the hunter call for his gun!
At the first gunshot-
Paaoow!
One's down for the pot!
The birds of a feather!
That flocked together!
That sang together!
That played together~
See them scattered!
poem by Kingsley Ayi
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Slumber Song
Some day, if I should ever lose you,
will you be able then to go to sleep
without me softly whispering above you
like night air stirring in the linden tree?
Without my waking here and watching
and saying words as tender as eyelids
that come to rest weightlessly upon your breast,
upon your sleeping limbs, upon your lips?
Without my touching you and leaving you
alone with what is yours, like a summer garden
that is overflowing with masses
of melissa and star-anise?
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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A Song
Dry leaf trembling on the branches
Before the blast,
Poor heart quaking in the bosom
For woe thou hast;
Ah what matter if the wind then,
Withered leaf from blooming linden
Should scatter wide?
Would for this the twig or branches
Have wailing sighed?
And should the lad his fate upbraid,
Although he ignominious fade--
And in an alien country die?
Will for him the beauteous maid
Complaining cry?
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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