A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread-and thou.
quote by Edward Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The New Omar
A Book of verses underneath the bough,
Provided that the verses do not scan,
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and Thou,
Short-haired, all angles, looking like a man.
But let the wine be unfermented, Pale,
Of chemicals compounded, God knows how-
This were indeed the Prophet's Paradise,
O Paradise were Wilderness enow.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The New Omar
A Book of verses underneath the bough,
Provided that the verses do not scan,
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and Thou,
Short-haired, all angles, looking like a man.
But let the wine be unfermented, Pale,
Of chemicals compounded, God knows how--
This were indeed the Prophet's Paradise,
O Paradise were Wilderness enow.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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A Book of Verses undeneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness- Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow
quote by Omar Khayyam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Picture Of Greed
on one hand
he carries a
big loaf of bread
on the other
he carries a
basket
of the same
loaf of bread
on his head
is another
basket of
the same loaf
of bread
a little child
spreads his
hands for
a loaf of bread
then he speeds
his way
as he bites
a loaf of
bread in
his mouth
the little child
follows him
and there he
is closing the
door of his
house all
made of bread
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.
quote by Omar Khayyam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the spirit of Rumi: 74: Bliss
and they asked him, master,
tell us about bliss…
and he smiled as if
within himself, he heard the
angels laughing at the blameless
comedy of human life
bliss, he said, is where you find it…
as, when one day, you’re so hungry
that a meal fit for gods and kings
is a loaf of warm, fresh-baked bread;
a jug of wine that doesn't ask a label;
maybe a piece of local cheese, why not,
the meal which in olden times,
was called ‘short commons’ in some tongues,
that every innkeeper would offer free
to the weary, dust-stained traveller
as one would offer to one’s god
in thanks for life and sustenance…
saying, there’s a shady tree out there,
go and sit beneath it in the cool…
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine… and Thou..
Thou who appearest in so many forms
always beside me;
Thou who made the bread, its daily freshness
as if the morning made it from the desert dew;
who made the wine’s slow miracle;
who made the jug – the metaphoric clay of life
made moist with love, fired hard by love…
who made the tree which shades you as you eat;
who, the meal finished, waits for your gratitude
so as to know that all He made, is good…
and who then offers - as silently as sand beneath your feet,
as silently as cool air moves around the tree’s light shade,
as silently as ripening figs blush on the branch above you,
as silently as roses live their scented life,
as still as morning dawns, or evening shades -
Himself, as bliss; where for a moment as you sit,
there is no thing in all His world
to be desired; for All is here..
there in the heart, the sweetest taste of His
so intricate and jewelled simplicity.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Single Loaf Of Bread
A SINGLE LOAF OF BREAD
All these poems
And all this life
And all this endless writing
Do not buy
A single loaf of bread.
Measured by money
I mean minus forever.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Compromise used to mean that half a loaf was better than no bread. Among modern statesmen it really seems to mean that half a loaf; is better than a whole loaf.
quote by Gilbert K. Chesterton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nobody Dies Of Hunger
i have not heard
of someone
die of hunger, man always knows how to live
not by bread alone
he also knows how to steal a loaf of bread
and there is no more
prison term for
a loaf so to speak
for society knows
the worth of a loaf and
judges know
the justifications for
hunger,
rice, fish, bread, water,
morsels,
dog food, all these, satisfy hunger
but really
i think more have died not of hunger
but of fear
and yes, i agree with you
loneliness also kills
so which is which
that kills you
the fear of being
alone
and being alone and
lonely
strictly speaking, fear and loneliness
are two distinct
feelings, one is still to come
and by
a very long distance
it hits you right
in the head
and then
you fall like you were executed by nobody, no one,
except
by an empty space,
a false bullet shot by this badge of fraud,
extreme loneliness
the murderer again
whose name
is no one but yourself
what a pity!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Omar Khayyam
Omar – (do I need to insist
that’s the poet, not the terrorist?) –
when I was young and life was frantic
I found your poetry romantic –
a loaf of bread, a jug of wine,
and that non-gender-specific Thou,
about whom, scholars gracefully decline..
but now I’ve weathered the twentieth century
with perhaps a touch of grace
I’m equally content, and grateful too –
chewing on my baguette of chorizo,
the screw-top wine beside me,
in this battered caravan park
where immigrant children play
and TVs flicker in the dark
bringing desert headlines by night and day;
so, not oblivious to fate’s deals
and dust beneath the trailer wheels..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Luxor Of Luxuries
Thy wealth is of thy labours!
Thy luxury is of the works of thy labours!
Thou who has never taken from any cunningly!
Thy who has never gone a-plundering!
Thou who has never taken from any his earnings forcefully!
Thou whose bread and wine is just!
Thy luxury pleases me!
Let not my bread and wine be from plunderings!
Let not my meat be gotten thievery!
Thy kind of wealth is my desire!
Nay! On thy table, there be not the meat for animals!
In thy cup, there be not wine from the orchards of inferiors!
Thy wealth is wealth indeed!
For there be no stains of paupery thereof!
Luxor! Oh luxor! !
Give to me of thy wealth!
That i mayest hold up my head amongst men!
That i may say boldly!
I am of luxor the great sun that shines upon all of his wealth of light!
To thee oh luxor! My heart calls out!
I am well as well!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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From The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, I: 1-3, V: 12-15, 19-24, 71-72
1
Wake! For the Sun, who scattered into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n and strikes
The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
2
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?"
3
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open, then, the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
12
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
13
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
14
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
15
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turned
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
19
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropped in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
20
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
21
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears:
Tomorrow!--Why, Tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
22
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath pressed,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
23
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
24
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
71
The Moving Finger writes, and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
72
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawlingcooped we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
poem by Edward Fitzgerald
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A Theory Of Time And Space
Time &
Space is a Big Loaf of Bread
There Peacefully put
on top of your dining table
The knife's sharp edge
cuts through it
and Puts you There
There is an illusion
for the Moment
You see a river flowing
towards the sea
You hear the voice of surging
The rage against the rocks
the sliding upon the banks
Inside that Big Loaf of
Bread are all the ingredients,
The past, the present and the Future
and You may taste it at once
What you have is a moment of illusion
that you cannot be here and there at the same time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Neighbours
My neighbour has a field of wheat
And I a rood of vine;
And he will give me bread to eat,
And I will give him wine.
And so we are a jolly pair,
Contentedly unwed,
Singing with supper as we share
Red wine and crusty bread.
Now venison is mighty meat
And so is trout and hare;
A mallard duck is sweat to eat
And quail is dainty fare.
But such are foods for festal day,
And we will not repine
While on the table we can lay
Crisp bread and rosy wine.
A will to till one's own of soil
Is worth a kingly crown,
With bread to feed the belly need,
And wine to wash it down.
So with my neighbour I rejoice
That we are fit and free,
Content to praise with lusty voice
Bread, Wine and Liberty.
poem by Robert William Service
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Weary
Aw, I'm sick o' the whole darn human race,
An' I'm sick o' this mundane ball;
I'm sick o' the sight o' me brother's face,
An' his works an' talk an' all;
I'm sick o' the silly sounds I hear,
I'm sick o' the sights I see;
Ole Omar K. he knew good cheer,
An' it's much the same with me.
Gimme a bit o' a bough to sit
Beneath, an' a book of rhyme,
An' a cuddlemsome girl that sings a bit,
But don't sing all the time:
That's all I ask, an' it's only just;
For it's all that I hold dear
A bough an' a book an' a girl an' a crust;
That, an' a jug o' beer.
Then I'll cuddle me girl an' I'll quaff me ale
As we sit on the leafy floor;
An' when the book an' the beer jug fail,
I'll cuddle me girl some more.
For jugs give out an' books get slow.
But you can take my tip for square
Tho' the bough an' the book an' the beer jug go,
The girl, she's always there.
For I'm sick o' the sight o' me brother's face,
An' the world's a sight too slow;
An' I'm sick o' tryin' to go the pace,
When there ain't no pace to go;
I'm sick o' the 'gilded halls of vice,'
An' I'm sick o' the 'sainted shrine,'
I'm sick o' me own an' me friends' advice,
An' the gold that won't be mine.
I'm sick o' the sound o' me fellow's voice,
I'm sick o' his schemes an' shams;
O' trying to choose when there ain't no choice,
An' of damin' several dams;
So, gimme a girl that ain't too slow,
You can keep your book of rhyme,
An' you bough an' bread an' your beer. Wot O!
An' I'll cuddle her all the time.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Nationality
I have grown past hate and bitterness,
I see the world as one;
But though I can no longer hate,
My son is still my son.
All men at God's round table sit,
and all men must be fed;
But this loaf in my hand,
This loaf is my son's bread.
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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A Bottle of Wine and a loaf of Bread
You cheated me of a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread,
And you made me paid extra for them! !
But all thses will come back to you one day,
Because we have to be very honest in this world always;
And like the muse of your love hanging up over the wall.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Earth
I would lie low, the ground on which men tread,
Swept by Thy spirit like the wind of heaven;
An earth where gushing springs and corn for bread,
By me at every season should be given;
Yet not the water or the bread that now
Supplies their tables with its daily food,
But thou wouldst give me fruit for every bough,
Such as Thou givest me, and call'st it good;
And water from the stream of life should flow,
By every dwelling that thy love has built,
Whose taste the ransomed of thy Son shall know,
Whose robes are washed from every stain of guilt;
And men would own it was thy hand that blest,
And from my bosom find a surer rest.
poem by Jones Very
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Barmbrack
I break this brack, a bread of fruit,
A bread too good for the eating.
My wives still make me some sawn ring,
A bagel, or a bangle, or sweet pie so much.
My breakfast needs a bracelet
From the opposition, an angry mob,
Who condemn my family of loaf-eaters;
Their argument survived,
And all I ate was the actual bread
That was baked a dozen times a day.
poem by Naveed Akram
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After Many Days
I'VE always been a faithful man
An' tried to live for duty,
But the stringent mode of life
Has somewhat lost its beauty.
The story of the generous bread
He sent upon the waters,
Which after many days returns
To trusting sons and daughters,
Had oft impressed me, so I want
My soul influenced by it,
And bought a loaf of bread and sought
A stream where I could try it.
I cast my bread upon the waves
And fancied then to await it;
It had not floated far away
When a fish came up and ate it.
And if I want both fish and bread,
And surely both I'm wanting,
About the only way I see
Is for me to go fishing.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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