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Unexpressed Cries
(Written on the deaths of infants when Israel attacked Palestine)
O! I came into your world
Not with my own will
I was sent here by God
From the better calm world
Or dragged by my parents
To realize their dreams.
The strangers’ arms rock me,
Who sings lullaby to put me asleep
Where are my own dad and mom?
They do not kiss my cheeks
Who are these who weep,
And dropp warm tears on my forehead
Free of wrinkles?
What are the sounds,
That I have been hearing,
Since birth,
No more than a month ago?
What tingles my tiny eyes?
What torments my little nose?
I see darkness dancing,
And listen to wailings all around.
Is there any one to tell me,
What is going on in the world?
I am too little to know
The roots of clashes;
I only hear grumble growl
Of flying birds of iron
And then:
Boom boom boom… Bang bang bang…
Tut tut tut…shew shew shew…
Lo! What comes with a streak
Of a horrible spurtion,
Perhaps a flying adder,
Ah tut….
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Sonnet XXV
HOw long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
And know no end of her owne mysery:
but wast and weare away in termes vnsure,
twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully.
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
and shew the last ensample of your pride:
then to torment me thus with cruelty,
to proue your powre, which I too wel haue tride.
But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide,
a close intent at last to shew me grace:
then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
as meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace.
And wish that more and greater they might be,
that greater meede at last may turne to mee.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Friendship Between Ephelia And Ardelia
Eph. What Friendship is, ARDELIA shew.
Ard. 'Tis to love, as I love You.
Eph. This Account, so short (tho' kind)
Suits not my enquiring Mind.
Therefore farther now repeat;
What is Friendship when complete?
Ard. 'Tis to share all Joy and Grief;
'Tis to lend all due Relief
From the Tongue, the Heart, the Hand;
'Tis to mortgage House and Land;
For a Friend be sold a Slave;
'Tis to die upon a Grave,
If a Friend therein do lie.
Eph. This indeed, tho' carry'd high,
This, tho' more than e'er was done
Underneath the rolling Sun,
This has all been said before.
Can ARDELIA say no more?
Ard. Words indeed no more can shew:
But 'tis to love, as I love you.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Occasion'd By Seeing Some Verses Written By Mrs. Constantia Grierson, Upon The Death Of Her Son.
This mourning Mother can with Ease explore
The Arts of Latium, and the Grecian Store:
Was early learn'd, nay more, was early wise;
And knew the Pride of Science to despife;
Left Men to take assuming Airs from thence;
And seem'd unconscious of superior Sense.
Yet, ah! how vain to guard the Soul, we see,
Are the best Precepts of Philosophy!
See Nature triumph o'er the boasted Art,
Ev'n in a Solon's, and Constantia's Heart.
See how she mourns her Son's untimely Doom,
And pours her Woes o'er the relentless Tomb.
Soften, kind Heav'n, her seeming rigid Fate,
With frequent Visions of his blissful State:
Oft let the Guardian Angel of her Son
Tell her in faithful Dreams, His Task is done;
Shew, how he kindly led her lovely Boy
To Realms of Peace, and never--fading Joy.
Then, for a while, reverse his happy Fate;
Shew him still here, still in this wretched State:
Shew the false World, seducing him from Truth;
And paint the slipp'ry, dang'rous Paths of Youth:
Shew him, in riper Years, beset with Snares,
Weary'd with struggling thro' unnumber'd Cares:
Convey him thence to Life's remotest Stage,
To feel the dire Calamities of Age;
Oppress'd with Sorrows, with Distempers torn,
Or rack'd with Guilt, much harder to be borne.
Raise the Distress; and let her darling Care,
Distracted in the Horrors of Despair,
The dreadful Scene of Judgment op'ning see,
And, trembling, plunge into Eternity.
Then ask her, Would she call him down from Bliss,
To hazard such a dismal Doom as this?
That she may learn to be resign'd from thence,
And bless the Guardian Hand, that snatch'd him hence.
poem by Mary Barber
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How No Age Is Content
LAID in my quiet bed, in study as I were,
I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear.
And every thought did shew so lively in mine eyes,
That now I sigh'd, and then I smiled, as cause of thought did rise.
I saw the little boy in thought how oft that he
Did wish of God to scape the rod, a tall young man to be.
The young man eke that feels his bones with pains opprest,
How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest.
The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore,
How he would be a boy again, to live so much the more.
Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all these three,
From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree.
And musing thus I think, the case is very strange,
That man from wealth, to live in woe, doth ever seek to change.
Thus thoughtful as I lay, I saw my wither'd skin,
How it doth shew my dented chews, the flesh was worn so thin.
And eke my toothless chaps, the gates of my right way,
That opes and shuts as I do speak, do thus unto me say :
' Thy white and hoarish airs, the messengers of age,
That shew, like lines of true belief, that this life doth assuage ;
Bid thee lay hand, and feel them hanging on thy chin ;
The which do write two ages past, the third now coming in.
Hang up therefore the bit of thy young wanton time :
And thou that therein beaten art, the happiest life define.'
Whereat I sigh'd and said : ' Farewell ! my wonted joy ;
Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me to every little boy ;
And tell them thus from me ; their time most happy is,
If, to their time, they reason had, to know the truth of this.'
poem by Henry Howard
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Quhen Taylours are true, there is little good to shew.
Upon Apparel
God gave us Cloaths to hide our Nakedness,
And we by them, do it expose to View.
Our Pride, and unclean Minds, to an excess,
By our Apparel we to others shew.
poem by John Bunyan
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The Rock Of Rubies, And The Quarry Ofpearls
Some ask'd me where the Rubies grew:
And nothing I did say,
But with my finger pointed to
The lips of Julia.
Some ask'd how Pearls did grow, and where:
Then spoke I to my girl,
To part her lips, and shew me there
The quarrelets of Pearl.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Upon Time
Time was upon
The wing, to fly away;
And I call'd on
Him but awhile to stay;
But he'd be gone,
For aught that I could say.
He held out then
A writing, as he went,
And ask'd me, when
False man would be content
To pay again
What God and Nature lent.
An hour-glass,
In which were sands but few,
As he did pass,
He shew'd,--and told me too
Mine end near was;--
And so away he flew.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Me and You
I love the way you smile
I love your dimples
When I look into your eyes
Everything feel so simple
With you in my arms
It feels like nothing is wrong
My past might catch up
But with you
I know I can not mess up
Ride or die
Smoke and fly
Kiss or shew
It don't matter boo
Because it just me and you
poem by Curtis Brown
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For A Gentleman, Who, Kissinge His Friend At His Departure Left A Signe Of Blood On Her
What mystery was this; that I should finde
My blood in kissing you to stay behinde?
'Twas not for want of color that requirde
My blood for paynt: No dye could be desirde
On that fayre silke, where scarlett were a spott
And where the juice of lillies but a blotte.
'Twas not the signe of murther that did taynt
The harmlesse beauty of so pure a saynt:
Yes, of a loving murther, which rough steele
Could never worke; such as we joy to feele:
Wherby the ravisht soule though dying lives,
Since life and death the selfsame object gives.
If at the presence of a murtherer
The wound will bleede and tell the cause is ther,
A touch will doe much more, and thus my heart,
When secretly it felt the killing darte,
Shew'd it in blood: which yet doth more complayne
Because it cannot be so touched againe.
This wounded heart, to shew its love most true,
Sent forth a droppe and writ its minde on you.
Never was paper halfe so white as this,
Nor waxe so yeelding to the printed kisse,
Nor seal'd so strong. Noe letter ere was writt
That could the author's minde so truly hitt.
For though myselfe to foreigne countries flie,
My blood desires to keepe you company.
Here could I spill it all: thus I can free
Mine enemy from blood, though slayne I be:
But slayne I cannot bee, nor meete with ill,
Since but by you I have no blood to spill.
poem by William Strode
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Greatness is great power, producing great effects. It is not enough that a man has great power in himself, he must shew it to all the world in a way that cannot be hid or gainsaid.
William Hazlitt in Pleasure of Hating
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Introduction
‘Five windows light the cavern’d Man: thro’ one he breathes the air;
Thro’ one hears music of the spheres; thro’ on the eternal vine
Flourished, that he may receive the grapes; thro’ one can look
And see small portions of the eternal world that ever growth;
Thro’ one himself pass out what time he please, but he will not;
For stolen joys are sweet, & bread eaten in secret pleasant.’
So sang a Fairy mocking as he sat on a streak’d Tulip,
Thinking none saw him; when he ceas’d I started from the trees,
And caught him in my hat as boys knock down a butterfly.
‘How know you this,’ said I, ‘small Sir? where did you learn this song?’
seeing himself in my possession, thus he answer’d me:
‘My Master, I am yours; command me, for I must obey.’
‘Then tell me what is the material world, and is it dead?’
He laughing answer’d: ‘I will write a book on leaves of flowers,
If you will feed me on love-thoughts, & give me now and then
A cup of sparkling poetic fancies. So, when I am tipsie,
I’ll sing to you to this soft lute, and shew you all alive
The world, where every particle of dust breathes forth its joy.’
I took him home in my warm bosom. As we went along
Wild flowers I gather’d, & he shew’d me each eternal flower.
He laugh’d aloud to see them whimper because they were pluck’d.
They hover’d round me like a cloud of incense. When I came
Into my parlour and sat down, and took my pen to write,
My Fairy sat upon the table, and dictated ‘EUROPE.’
poem by William Blake from Europe a Prophecy (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Parcae; Or, Three Dainty Destinies:the Armilet
Three lovely sisters working were,
As they were closely set,
Of soft and dainty maiden-hair,
A curious Armilet.
I, smiling, ask'd them what they did,
Fair Destinies all three?
Who told me they had drawn a thread
Of life, and 'twas for me.
They shew'd me then how fine 'twas spun
And I replied thereto;
'I care not now how soon 'tis done,
Or cut, if cut by you.'
poem by Robert Herrick
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Respect My Integrity
Bare me out
Why all these dought
I dare you to
Respect my integrity
For they say i am mad
Because of poverty
But whither rich or poor
All is vanity
I will shew my self wise
Or else fools be my adversary
I will seek eternity
I will always fight
For my dignity
Why all these dought
Bare me out
Humans bare me out
poem by Matt Ancient
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On Mr Colliers Essay On The Stage
Some ages has the stage triumphant stood,
and vice in masquerade debauchd the crowd;
In charming numbers, all bewitching arts,
has the gay syren drest to steal our hearts:
like undesigning pleasure she appears,
at once delights & unperceivd insnares,
long has she found th' unhappy pow'r to please,
& wantond in a luxury of success.
But you unmasque the fashionable cheat,
Draw off the curtain, & dissect the bait,
Expose to view the hook so closely hid,
Break down her altars, & her priests deride.
thus, when to painted Idols Israel bowd,
the good Elijah Zealous for his god
Against the blocks, and all their prophets rose,
Alone attackd and overthrew his foes.
Hail man of god, all hail, whose pious quill
Dares check a world thats so perversly ill,
Dares ev'n its darling vanities abuse,
and in its full Carreer arrest the looser muse.
You like some angell guide conduct us on,
& shew the sodom wch you teach to shun;
You spoil the varnisht ill of all its rays,
of all its beauty's, evry borrowd grace,
& shew wt lurks beneath so smooth a face.
Thus (say the bards) some worthy knight maintains
A warr wth fairy states, enchanted scenes,
When he moves on the bright delusion fly's,
& dismall dungeons gape before his eyes
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Upon Seeing A Raffle For Addison's Works unfill'd.
Ye gentle Beaux, and thoughtless Belles,
Who gaily rove at Tunbridge--Wells,
With Pockets full; and empty Looks,
Raffling for ev'ry Toy--but Books:
Should Addison's immortal Page
(The Glory of his Land and Age)
Want two Subscriptions to be full,
The World will dare pronounce you dull.
Be wise--subscribe--and shew, at least;
That you have one Pretence to Taste.
poem by Mary Barber
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My Love in Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
My Love in Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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My Love In Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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