One Of The Saints
Big Smith is an Oakland School Board man,
And he looks as good as ever he can;
And he's such a cold and a chaste Big Smith
That snowflakes all are his kin and kith.
Wherever his eye he chances to throw
The crystals of ice begin to grow;
And the fruits and flowers he sees are lost
By the singeing touch of a sudden frost.
The women all shiver whenever he's near,
And look upon _us_ with a look austere-
Effect of the Smithian atmosphere.
Such, in a word, is the moral plan
Of the Big, Big Smith, the School Board man.
When told that Madame Ferrier had taught
_Hernani_ in school, his fist he brought
Like a trip-hammer down on his bulbous knee,
And he roared: 'Her Nanny? By gum, we'll see
If the public's time she dares devote
To the educatin' of any dam goat!'
'You do not entirely comprehend-
_Hernani's_ a play,' said his learned friend,
'By Victor Hugo-immoral and bad.
What's worse, it's French!' 'Well, well, my lad,'
Said Smith, 'if he cuts a swath so wide
I'll have him took re'glar up and tried!'
And he smiled so sweetly the other chap
Thought that himself was a Finn or Lapp
Caught in a storm of his native snows,
With a purple ear and an azure nose.
The Smith continued: 'I never pursue
Immoral readin'.' And that is true:
He's a saint of remarkably high degree,
With a mind as chaste as a mind can be;
But read!-the devil a word can he!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode
Are they clinging to their crosses,
F. E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?
Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard -
With a crib to read it with -
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford answered."
Really, Smith?
In the lands where Christians were,
F. E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.
It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples...
Chuck it, Smith!
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Matter Of Degree
B. SMITH would most undoubtedly be very, very cross
If some rude person called him Jap, and yet, I'm at a loss
To see how he could argue otherwise in that respect:
A Jap is human - or a rumour's rife to that effect.
And he talks and argues much the same as B.
So, if SMITH is not a twin
To his cherished Yellow-skin,
Why it's only just a matter of degree,
Just a trifling little matter of degree.
Now, a Jap is not a monkey. though he's oft compared with such,
And he doesn't look unlike one, so it hardly matters much.
A monkey has a fearsome phiz, and hands that grab at things,
And he imitates his betters - all of which the matter brings
To a very clear conclusion, seems to me,
Which you cannot fairly funk:
If a Jap is not a monk
Ey, it's patently a matter of degree.
And we needn't mind a matter of degree.
Of native monkeys hereabout, of course, you haven't heard;
And a monkey's not a native bear, which, clearly, is absurd,
And yet, a bear clings to a tree with young bears on its back
(My word! we're getting on a rather interesting tack)
Yes, it clings there like the cheerful chimpanzee.
So, if monkeys are not bears
So, overlooking certain petty matters of degree,
We are forced to these conclusions with undoubted certaintee:
B. SMITH'S a Jap, a Jap's an ape (according unto SMITH),
An ape's a bear, a bear's a bunyip, and the last's a myth!
It's as clear as any argument can be
That if our dear friend SMITH
Is not a simple myth
It's an unimportant matter of degree,
Quite a microscopic matter of degree.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode
Are they clinging to their crosses,
F. E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?
Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard --
With a crib to read it with --
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford answered."
Really, Smith?
In the lands where Christians were,
F. E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.
It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples...
Chuck it, Smith!
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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The critic
The status of critics has changed,
The most important critics were those who stood on street
corners
Full of gossip and finger wagging
Or the busty burly matrons whispering over washing lines
These critics were the slanderers
The little vipers who hung by the school gate
Some still do,
This time they sink a pint or two,
In the pub with a couple of pug nose friends
But there is a class of critics
That whitewash your pale white words
Austere and aloof from the proof,
Scrubbed clean and mean,
They murder sentiment
Mock fools without 'a scene'
Redefining the 'new' 'illiterattii, ' who never went to school'
These critics wear brogues.....? ?
Am I being cruel? [or just ironic? ]
The men drink whisky
The women a gin/ vodka and tonic!
Fifty years ago they would 'parade'
In a uniforn of tweed and plaid
Post public school
But some critics just thumbnail through
Half asleep over scripts they render dead/ unread
'They are not amused'
So don't lose any sleep
They have no time you
yvette smith may 2009
poem by Yvette Smith
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Bones
Said Mr. Smith, “I really cannot
Tell you, Dr. Jones—
The most peculiar pain I’m in—
I think it’s in my bones.”
Said Dr. Jones, “Oh, Mr. Smith,
That’s nothing. Without doubt
We have a simple cure for that;
It is to take them out.”
He laid forthwith poor Mr. Smith
Close-clamped upon the table,
And, cold as stone, took out his bones
As fast as he was able.
Smith said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,”
And wished him a good-day;
And with his parcel ‘neath his arm
He slowly moved away.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Zero Bars (Mr. Smith)
my name is Smith
your silence is my trade
my name is Smith
here in this bar you fade out
time heals nothing
it merely rearranges our memory
in zero bars
even time no longer seems willing to try
please look around
empty faces that never quite die
don't be surprised
their bodies move by habit, look in their eyes
nothing is real
if you break down and cry they won't even stare
nobody feels
it's far too risky to admit that you care
my name is Smith
your silence is my trade
my name is Smith
here in this bar you fade out
Gary Numan, "Zero Bars (Mr. Smith)", _T_u_b_e_w_a_y _A_r_m_y (Beggars Banquet/ATCO 1978)
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I was in every band class I could get in, like after school jazz band and marching band, and that's where I really learned to read music from elementary all the way through junior high and high school.
quote by Chad Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In 1941 I finished at Allison Intermediate School (grades 7-9), and started at North High School, commuting by bicycle about 5 miles from home to school.
quote by Vernon L. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Zero Bars
My name is smith
Your silence is my trade
My name is smith
Here in this bar you fade out
Time heals nothing
It merely rearranges our memory
In zero bars
Even time no longer seems willing to try
Please look around
Empty faces that never quite die
Don't be surprised
Their bodies move by habit, look in their eyes
Nothing is real
If you break down and cry they won't even stare
Nobody feels
It's far too risky to admit that you care
My name is smith
Your silence is my trade
My name is smith
Here in this bar you fade out
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Mine
My king-I worship your every move
My love-I show all affection
My kiss-your lips are heavenly
My friend-let's go away together
my soulmate-be mind forever
My crush-let's be together
My mind-share my every thought
My life-live it to the fulless
My song-have harmony
my heart-skips a beat when our eyes meet
My words-so true
carlisa smith
poem by Carlisa Smith
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I Sent My Child To School Today
I sent my child to school today
With his little lunch box
When he came home he said his friend
Had gotten the chickenpox,
I sent my child to school today
And asked him what he learned
He told me about firemen
They taught him how not to get burned,
I sent my child to school today
He said, 'Do you know what they taught me? '
He told me they taught him numbers
As well as his ABC’s,
I sent my child to school today
A smile on his face
I gave him a kiss and a hug
And said, 'See ya funny face! ',
I sent my child to school today
His smile bright and wide
But an older child brought in a gun
How did he get it inside? ,
I sent my child to school today
As in every day
But the child with the gun started shooting
The reason? No one could say,
I buried my child after school today
All I can do is cry
I lost my child at school today
And nobody can tell me why.
poem by Doug Hollywood Davis
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Bessie Smith
Bessie was more than a friend of mine
We shared the good times and the bad
Well many years has since passed me by
I still recall the best thing I ever had
Now I'm going down the road to see Bessie
Oh see her soon
I'm just going down the road to see Bessie Smith
When I get there I wondering what she'll do
Now all the crazy things I had to try
Well I tried them all and then some
But if you're lucky one day you will find out
Where it is that you're really coming from
Now I'm going down the road to see Bessie
Oh see her soon
I'm just going down the road to see Bessie Smith
When I get there I wondering what she'll do
Now in my day I've made some foolish moves
But back then I didn't worry about a thing
Now and again I still wonder to myself
Was it the sweet love or the way that she could sing
I'm just going down the road to see Bessie Smith
When I get there I wondering what she'll do
I'm just going down the road to see Bessie Smith
When I get there I wondering what she'll do
song performed by by Norah Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You
You make me laugh
The way you smile with your critical eyes
And point with your finger of wisdom
In the direction of mecca?
Or Ambrosia
Or some other foreign God
So you bending your rod
Bow
Down
At the high temple of pure wisdom
You who understand
'nothing'
About being human
Distracted by dead writers
And
These broken lines
Keep you in detention
Held back in school
While the world goes racing by
Full of hot blood and fury
And the passion of being alive
[this is just a commentary]
yvette m smith may 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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The journey
Word sent
Word weight heavy less
I don' t understand the journey that you take
Only that your arrival is thread bare organic
Flimsy light purposefully driven
Under the skin of the object
You are telling me
That words
Are living
Whose cells unfold and multiply
Some insinuate a 'texture'
Some hybrid and hibernate
Some spring
Some loosen and unbud themselves
From surface forming
Those dark shadowy things
The recesses of what an amnesiac
Has chosen to desensitise
They are the memory box
The shiny button
The torn school name tag
The crumpled first diary
Some secrets
Some return to pure sensation
A first taste of being feeling
outside, of what it is 'to be'
They are alive
Living
After what is written is long gone
yvette smith april 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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The Boys Out There
'Why do they do it? I dunno,'
Sez Digger Smith. 'Yeh got me beat.
Some uv the yarns yeh 'ear is true,
An' some is rather umptydoo,
An' some is - indiscreet.
But them that don't get to the crowd,
Them is the ones would make you proud.'
With Digger Smith an' other blokes
'Oo 'ave returned it's much the same:
They'll talk uv wot they've seen an' done
When they've been out to 'ave their fun;
But no word uv the game.
On fights an' all the tale uv blood
Their talk, as they remark, is dud.
It's so with soldiers, I 'ave 'eard,
All times. The things they 'ave done,
War-mad, with blood before their eyes,
An' their ears wild fightin' cries,
They ever after shun.
P'r'aps they forget; or find it well
Not to recall too much uv 'Ell.
An' when they won't loose up their talk
It's 'ard for us to understand
'Ow all those boys we used to know,
Ole Billo, Jim an' Tom an' Joe,
Done things to beat the band.
We knoo they'd fight; but they've became
'Ead ringers at the fightin' game.
Well, wot I've 'eard from Digger Smith
An' other soldier blokes like 'im
I've put together bit by bit,
An' chewed a long time over it;
An' now I've got a dim
An' 'azy notion in me 'ead
Why they is battlers, born an' bred.
Wot did they know uv war first off,
When they joined up? Wot did I know
When I was tossed out on me neck
As if I was a shattered wreck
The time I tried to go?
Flat feet! Me feet 'as len'th and brea'th
Enough to kick a 'Un to death!
They don't know nothing, bein' reared
Out 'ere where war 'as never spread
'A land by bloodless conquest won,'
As some son uv a writin' gun
Sez in a book I read
They don't know nix but wot they're told
At school; an' that sticks till they're old.
Yeh've got to take the kid at school,
Gettin' 'is 'ist'ry lesson learned
Then tales uv Nelson an' uv Drake,
Uv Wellington an' Fightin' Blake.
'Is little 'eart 'as burned
To get right out an' 'ave a go,
An' sock it into some base foe.
Nothin' but glory fills 'is mind;
The British charge is somethin' grand;
The soldier that 'e reads about
Don't 'ave no time for fear an' doubt;
'E's the 'eroic brand.
So, when the boy gets in the game,
'E jist wades in an' does the same.
Not bein' old 'ands at the stunt,
They simply does as they are told;
But, bein' Aussies - Spare me days!
They never thinks uv other ways,
But does it brave an' bold.
That's 'arf; an' for the other part
Yeh got to go back to the start.
Yeh've got to go right back to Dad,
To Gran'dad and the pioneers,
'Oo packed up all their bag uv tricks
An' come out 'ere in fifty-six,
An' battled thro' the years;
Our Gran'dads; and their women, too,
That 'ad the grit to face the new.
It's that old stock; an', more than that,
It's Bill an' Jim an' ev'ry son
Gettin' three good meat meals a day
An' 'eaps uv chance to go an' play
Out in the bonzer sun.
It's partly that; but, don't forget,
When it's all said, there's something yet.
There's something yet; an' there I'm beat.
Crowds uv these lads I've known, but then,
They 'ave got somethin' from this war,
Somethin' they never 'ad before,
That makes 'em better men.
Better? There's no word I can get
To name it right. There's somethin' yet.
We 'ear a lot about reward;
We praise, an' sling the cheers about;
But there was debts we can't repay
Piled up on us one single day
When that first list come out.
There ain't no way to pay that debt.
Do wot we can - there's somethin' yet.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bessie Smith
(r. danko and j.r. robertson)
Bessie was more than just a friend of mine
We shared the good times with the bad
Now many a year has passed me by
I still recall the best thing I ever had
Im just goin down the road t see bessie
Oh, see her soon
Goin down the road t see bessie smith
When I get there I wonder what shell do
Now all the crazy things I had to try
Well I tried them all and then some
But if youre lucky one day you find out
Where it is youre really comin from
Im just goin down the road t see bessie
Oh, see her soon
Goin down the road t see bessie smith
When I get there I wonder what shell do
Now in my day Ive made some foolish moves
But back then, I didnt worry bout a thing
And now again I still wonder to myself
Was it her sweet love or the way that she could sing
Im just goin down the road t see bessie
Oh, see her soon
Goin down the road t see bessie smith
When I get there I wonder what shell do
Theres so much time has gone right on by
I didnt think one could be so wrong
And then one night I was drinkin and a-thinkin
In the bottom of the glass I could see bessies face so strong
Im just goin down the road t see bessie
Oh, see her soon
Goin down the road t see bessie smith
When I get there I wonder what shell do
When she sees me will she know what Ive been through?
Will old times start to feelin like new?
When I get there will our love still feel so true?
Yet all I have, Ill be a-bringin it to you
Oh bessie, sing them old-time blues
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Potato
My love is a potato
Crude with piggy black eyes
Slit in the side and soiled by sod
My love is the rough handled skin
That follows the relentless storm
The tempestous waves
That raged and rent its first soft form
My love is a potato
The first and almost last known outcast
In a jungle school
His head was wedged like a spud
Mounted on a sinew of neck and bristle
His face sunken into flesh
His eyes two dark slits of piggy black lust
That lit up like a fool
I left him standing at the gate, after school!
My love is a potato after the mash and the kill
And the spill of the innocent milk of the martyr
The final slab of the butter
My love is a potato
Not quite a heart
Battered down
And worn
But after the storm
A sweetness and softening
And love is born!
yvette smith march 09
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Need You Now
My friend, I need you now
Please take me by the hands
Stand by me in my hours of need
Take time to understand
Take my hand, dear friend
And lead me fron this place
Chase away my doubts and fears
Wipe the tears from off my face
friend, I can't stand alone
I need you hands to hold
The warmth of your gently touch
In my world that grown so cold
Please be a friend to me
and hold be day to day
Because with your loving hands in mine
I know we'll find the way.
carlisa smith
poem by Carlisa Smith
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You Need A Saviour
Words:deborah d. smith
Music: michael w. smith
Made a friend last night, or you thought you did
Had a drink, had a talk, took a drive
Shared the night, gave up a part of your soul
Now shes gone and youre a little less alive.
Shake it off, never let your feelings begin
But your defenses are down and the fear is closing in.
Chorus:
Yes, you really need a saviour
Somehow youve known it all along
Yes, you really need a saviour
You know youve heard it for so long
Yes, you really need a saviour
Someone to come and lead you on
You need a saviour
You need a saviour
Its time
Told yourself today just for your own sake
What was lost wouldnt cost anyway
Lifes a one night stand, this time youll win
The up and down, life-long game that you play.
Shake it off, never let your feelings begin
But your defenses are down and the fear is closing in.
Chorus
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tower Of Babel
Annabel Lee
Is the name on the label,
Reckon it ought to be
Tower of Babel
,
For there ain't a lingo
That's spoke or swore in
From San Domingo
To Tuti-
cor
-in,
From the Pole or near it
To Pernambuker
But what you'll 'ear it
On board this 'ooker.
And I give you my word, in our port watch
There's English and Irish and Welsh and Scotch,
A Finn, a Swede and a Portuguee,
A Frenchy, a Bim and a heathen Chinee,
And a son of a Dutch, son of a Greek,
Son of a nigger from Martinique.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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