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The Pigs and the Charcoal-burner
The old Pig said to the little pigs,
'In the forest is truffles and mast,
Follow me then, all ye little pigs,
Follow me fast!'
The Charcoal-burner sat in the shade
With his chin oil his thumb,
And saw the big Pig and the little pigs
Chuffling come.
He watched 'neath a green and giant bough,
And the pigs in the ground
Made a wonderful grisling and gruzzling
And greedy sound.
And when, full-fed, they were gone, and Night
Walked her starry ways,
He stared with his cheeks in his hands
At his sullen blaze.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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I shall not ever return to you, my pigs, because, at worst, to die valorously is better than to sleep out one's youth in the sun. A man has but one life. It is his all. Therefore I now depart from you, my
pigs, to win me a fine wife and much wealth and leisure wherein to discharge my geas. And when my geas is lifted I shall not come back to you, my pigs, but I shall travel everywhither, and into the last limits of earth, so that I may see the ends of this world and may judge them while my life endures. For after that, they say, I judge not, but am judged: and a man whose life has gone out of him, my pigs, is not even good bacon.
quote by James Branch Cabell
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Hints to Cheese Makers
Addressed to Jonathan Wingle, Esq.
All those who quality do prize
Must study color, taste and size
And keep their dishes clean and sweet,
And all things round their factories neat,
For dairymen insist that these
Are all important points in cheese.
Grant has here a famous work
Devoted to the cause of pork.
For dairymen find that it doth pay
To fatten pigs upon the whey,
For there is money raising grease
As well as in the making cheese.
poem by James McIntyre
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Sparkling Water
Sparkling Water drips like sugar coming from a grand white sugar cane,
Sparkling Water falls around, to the ground and speeds like cars on a freeway lane.
Sparkling Water glistens and gleams, you know it seems as real as it can be,
Nothing is real, but you hear me feel, the cold, pure breeze.
It pushes away,
In the hot summer day.
Like a frog in the green,
Those annoying little things.
They jump just like water,
Like babies tater toter.
We drink it,
We need it.
Its water, it sparkles, its beautiful, it gleams, so pure, must have it, I need it.
Sparkling Water, its life.
(Simile)
poem by Sam Panchenko
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I will go to my Father
Next to me a pig sow snorts
and the stench of pig manure
hangs heavy in the air
and the pigs are eating pods,
and I may not even
eat thereof
and my stomach burns with hunger.
It’s very hot
and I drink water from a fountain
and when the sun begin to set
and I heard the pigs,
I know that I must
go and fix my affairs.
I will go to my father
where his rows of tents
are set on the other side of the Jordan
and when I see him,
I will be happy
to be back with my dad.
He can admonish me
since I deserve it
and even if he doesn’t want me
as his son anymore,
I will ask him
to forgive me.
*
While I am still a great way off
he notices me walking on the road
and comes running,
and there are tears of joy
in his eyes.
[Reference: => Luke15: 11-32]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Pure Water
O my dear I love you
You are my pure water
You are a big reservoir
Of pure water
Pure water my love
And I pay no attention
To any other like or
Dislike reservoir
You are so large
So large O my love
You have tolerated me
After so much turmoil
My love you are
My all in all.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Water
There was a fountain
that flows out in the hillocks
where cold fresh water
sprayed up bubbling and pure.
No borehole water that tastes like mud
or that which streams metallic out of a pipe
and still less the city’s
purified liquid
in which the chemicals are still drifting white,
could smell and taste
like water which comes out of the heart
of the earth
and washed pure by thousands of rocks
splashing clean and clear into a glass.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.
quote by Winston Churchill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.
quote by Winston Churchill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Young pigs grunt as old pigs grunted before them.
Young pigs grunt as as old pigs grunted before them.
Night Of The Swallow
The night doesnt like it.
Looks just like your face on the moon, to me.
And I wont let you do
What you want to do.
Its funny how, even now,
Youre laughing.
I wont let you do it.
If you go, Ill let the law know,
And theyll head you off when you touch the ground.
Ooh, please, dont go through with this.
I dont like the sound of it.
Its funny how, even now,
Youre miles away.
I wont let you do it.
I wont let you do it.
I wont let you go through with it.
Meet them over at dover.
Ill just pilot the motor,
Take them over the water
With a hired plane,
And no names mentioned.
Tonights the night of the flight.
Before you know,
Ill be over the water
Like a swallow.
Theres no risk.
Ill whisk them up in no moonlight.
And though pigs can fly,
Theyll never find us
Posing as the night,
And Im home before the morning.
In malta, catch a swallow,
For all of the guilty--to set them free.
Wings fill the window,
And they beat and bleed.
They hold the sky on the other side
Of borderlines.
Meet them over at dover.
Ill just pilot the motor,
Take them over the water,
Like a swallow flying to malta,
With a hired plane,
And no names mentioned.
Tonights the night of the flight.
Before you know,
Ill be over the water
Like a swallow.
Theres no risk.
Ill whisk them up in no moonlight.
And though pigs can fly,
Theyll never find us
Posing as the night,
And Im home before the morning.
Give me a break!
Ooh, let me try!
Give me something to show
For my miserable life!
Give me something to take!
Would you break even my wings,
Just like a swallow?
Let me--let me go
With a hired plane,
And no names mentioned.
Tonights the night of the flight.
Before you know,
Ill be over the water
Like a swallow.
(let me--let me go!)
Theres no risk.
Ill whisk them up in no moonlight.
And though pigs can fly,
Theyll never find us
Posing as the night,
And Im home before the morning.
(let me--let me go!)
With a hired plane,
And no names mentioned.
Tonights the night of the flight.
Before you know,
Ill be over the water
Like a swallow.
(let me--let me go!)
Theres no risk.
Ill whisk them up in no moonlight.
And though pigs can fly,
Theyll never find us
Posing as the night,
And Im home before the morning--
But youre not a swallow!
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Everything You Have To Pay For This Days
Everything you have to pay for this days
Like a bottle of water
If you want to drink it
And I believe that is insame to pay for a bottle of water
Because the water that you buy is not 100% pure
Half of the water that you drink is bottle water and the other half is tap Water
But the water that you get out from your tap is just as good as the water
That you buy in the store
Why?
Because the water from the tap at home you don't have to pay for it
And you can drink as much as you like
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Pure Life
Where is your life going?
Is your water in a waterfall, dropping, and getting worse?
Or is it filling your glass, overflowing, and getting better?
Is your water still there?
Not evaporating?
Being dried up by the sun?
Are you losing time?
Do you watch how your water flows?
Water is pure and signifies life.
How is your life?
Or are you sad, with your water raining tears?
Is your water warm or cold?
Is your water steam or ice?
Is your soul cold or warm?
I hope your water is overflowing like a fountain with joy.
Not everyone's water has to be evaporating.
Remember to always watch where lifes heading.
Because maybe your water will mix and lives will intertwine.
Be with that person forever.
poem by Natalie Vail
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Nice Dace
Pig
Play
With pigs...
On the
Wastage water...
With Dance...
stomach and tail...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The Lament of Toby, The Learned Pig
Oh, heavy day! oh, day of woe!
To misery a poster,
Why was I ever farrowed, why
Not spitted for a roaster?
In this world, pigs, as well as men,
Must dance to fortune's fiddlings,
But must I give the classics up,
For barley-meal and middlings?
Of what avail that I could spell
And read, just like my betters,
If I must come to this at last,
To litters, not to letters?
Oh, why are pigs made scholars of?
It baffles my discerning,
What griskins, fry, and chitterlings
Can have to do with learning.
Alas! my learning once drew cash,
But public fame's unstable,
So I must turn a pig again
And fatten for the table.
To leave my literary line
My eyes get red and leaky;
But Giblett doesn't want me blue,
But red and white, and streaky.
Old Mullins used to cultivate
My learning like a gard'ner;
But Giblett only thinks of lard,
And not of Doctor Lardner.
He does not care about my brain
The value of two coppers,
All that he thinks about my head
Is, how I'm off for choppers.
Of all my literary kin
A farewell must be taken,
Goodbye to the poetic Hogg!
The philosophic Bacon!
Day after day my lessons fade,
My intellect gets muddy;
A trough I have, and not a desk,
A stye – and not a study!
Another little month, and then
My progress ends, like Bunyan's;
The seven sages that I loved
Will be chopped up with onions!
Then over head and ears in brine
They'll souse me, like a salmon,
My mathematics turned to brawn,
My logic into gammon.
My Hebrew will all retrograde,
Now I'm put up to fatten,
My Greek, it will all go to grease,
The dogs will have my Latin!
Farewell to Oxford ! – and to Bliss!
To Milman, Crowe, and Glossop, –
I now must be content with chats,
Instead of learned gossip!
Farewell to 'Town!' farewell to 'Gown!'
I've quite outgrown the latter, –
Instead of Trencher-cap my head
Will soon be in a platter!
Oh, why did I at Brazen-Nose
Rout up the roots of knowledge?
A butcher that can't read will kill
A pig that's been to college!
For sorrow I could stick myself,
But conscience is a dasher;
A thing that would be rash in man
In me would be a rasher!
One thing I ask – when I am dead
And past the Stygian ditches –
And that is, let my schoolmaster
Have one of my two Hitches.
'Twas he who taught my letters so
I ne'er mistook or missed 'em,
Simply by ringing at the nose
According to Bell's system.
poem by Thomas Hood
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Circe's Power
I never turned anyone into a pig.
Some people are pigs; I make them
Look like pigs.
I'm sick of your world
That lets the outside disguise the inside. Your men weren't bad men;
Undisciplined life
Did that to them. As pigs,
Under the care of
Me and my ladies, they
Sweetened right up.
Then I reversed the spell, showing you my goodness
As well as my power. I saw
We could be happy here,
As men and women are
When their needs are simple. In the same breath,
I foresaw your departure,
Your men with my help braving
The crying and pounding sea. You think
A few tears upset me? My friend,
Every sorceress is
A pragmatist at heart; nobody sees essence who can't
Face limitation. If I wanted only to hold you
I could hold you prisoner.
poem by Louise Gluck
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The River
In my first sleep
I came to the river
And looked down
Through the clear water -
Only in dream
Water so pure,
Laced and undulant
Lines of flow
On its rocky bed
Water of life
Streaming for ever.
A house was there
Beside the river
And I, arrived,
An expected guest
About to explore
Old gardens and libraries -
But the car was waiting
To drive me away.
One last look
Into that bright stream -
Trout there were
And clear on the bottom
Monster form
Of the great crayfish
That crawls to the moon.
On its rocky bed
Living water
In whorls and ripples
Flowing unbended.
There was the car
To drive me away.
We crossed the river
Of living water -
I might not stay,
But must return
By the road too short
To the waiting day.
In my second dream
Pure I was and free
By the rapid stream,
My crystal house the sky,
The pure crystalline sky.
Into the stream I flung
A bottle of clear glass
That twirled and tossed and spun
In the water's race
Flashing the morning sun.
Down that swift river
I saw it borne away,
My empty crystal form,
Exultant saw it caught
Into the current's spin,
The flashing water's run.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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Thirst
My spirit wails for water, water now!
My tongue is aching dry, my throat is hot
For water, fresh rain shaken from a bough,
Or dawn dews heavy in some leafy spot.
My hungry body's burning for a swim
In sunlit water where the air is cool,
As in Trout Valley where upon a limb
The golden finch sings sweetly to the pool.
Oh water, water, when the night is done,
When day steals gray-white through the windowpane,
Clear silver water when I wake, alone,
All impotent of parts, of fevered brain;
Pure water from a forest fountain first,
To wash me, cleanse me, and to quench my thirst!
poem by Claude McKay
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