The Glug Quest
Follow the river and cross the ford,
Follow again to the wobbly bridge,
Turn to the left at the notice board,
Climbing the cow-track over the ridge;
Tip-toe soft by the little red house,
Hold your breath if they touch the latch,
Creep to the slip-rails, still as a mouse,
Then . . . run like mad for the bracken patch.
Worm your way where the fern fronds tall
Fashion a lace-work over your head,
Hemming you in with a high, green wall;
Then, when the thrush calls once, stop dead.
Ask of the old grey wallaby there
Him prick-eared by the woollybutt tree
How to encounter a Glug, and where
The country of Gosh, famed Gosh may be.
But, if he is scornful, if he is dumb,
Hush! There's another way left. Then come.
On a white, still night, where the dead tree bends
Over the track, like a waiting ghost,
Travel the winding road that wends
Down to the shore on an Eastern coast.
Follow it down where the wake of the moon
Kisses the ripples of silver sand;
Follow it on where the night seas croon
A traveller's tale to the listening land.
Step not jauntily, not too grave,
Till the lip of the languorous sea you greet;
Wait till the wash of the thirteenth wave
Tumbles a jellyfish out at your feet.
Not too hopefully, not forlorn,
Whisper a word of your earnest quest;
Shed not a tear if he turns in scorn
And sneers in your face like a fish possessed.
Hist! Hope on! There is yet a way.
Brooding jellyfish won't be gay.
Wait till the clock in the tower booms three,
And the big bank opposite gnashes its doors,
Then glide with a gait that is carefully free
By the great brick building of seventeen floors;
Haste by the draper who smirks at his door,
Straining to lure you with sinister force,
Turn up the lane by the second-hand store,
And halt by the light bay carrier's horse.
By the carrier's horse with the long, sad face
And the wisdom of years in his mournful eye;
Bow to him thrice with a courtier's grace,
Proffer your query, and pause for reply.
Eagerly ask for a hint of the Glug,
Pause for reply with your hat in your hand;
If he responds with a snort and a shrug
Strive to interpret and understand.
Rare will a carrier's horse condescend.
Yet there's another way. On to the end!
Catch the four-thirty; your ticket in hand,
Punched by the porter who broods in his box;
Journey afar to the sad, soggy land,
Wearing your shot-silk lavender socks.
Wait at the creek by the moss-grown log
Till the blood of a slain day reddens the West.
Hark for the croak of a gentleman frog,
Of a corpulent frog with a white satin vest.
Go as he guides you, over the marsh,
Treading with care on the slithery stones,
Heedless of night winds moaning and harsh
That seize you and freeze you and search for your bones.
On to the edge of a still, dark pool,
Banishing thoughts of your warm wool rug;
Gaze in the depths of it, placid and cool,
And long in your heart for one glimpse of a Glug.
'Krock!' Was he mocking you? 'Krock! Kor-r-rock!'
Well, you bought a return, and it's past ten o'clock.
Choose you a night when the intimate stars
Carelessly prattle of cosmic affairs.
Flat on your back, with your nose pointing Mars,
Search for the star who fled South from the Bears.
Gaze for an hour at that little blue star,
Giving him, cheerfully, wink for his wink;
Shrink to the size of the being you are;
Sneeze if you have to, but softly; then think.
Throw wide the portals and let your thoughts run
Over the earth like a galloping herd.
Bounds to profundity let there be none,
Let there be nothing too madly absurd.
Ponder on pebbles or stock exchange shares,
On the mission of man or the life of a bug,
On planets or billiards, policemen or bears,
Alert all the time for the sight of a Glug.
Meditate deeply on softgoods or sex,
On carraway seeds or the causes of bills,
Biology, art, or mysterious wrecks,
Or the tattered white fleeces of clouds on blue hills.
Muse upon ologies, freckles and fog,
Why hermits live lonely and grapes in a bunch,
On the ways of a child or the mind of a dog,
Or the oyster you bolted last Friday at lunch.
Heard you no sound like a shuddering sigh!
Or the great shout of laughter that swept down the sky?
Saw you no sign on the wide Milky Way?
Then there's naught left to you now but to pray.
Sit you at eve when the Shepherd in Blue
Calls from the West to his clustering sheep.
Then pray for the moods that old mariners woo,
For the thoughts of young mothers who watch their babes sleep.
Pray for the heart of an innocent child,
For the tolerant scorn of a weary old man,
For the petulant grief of a prophet reviled,
For the wisdom you lost when your whiskers began.
Pray for the pleasures that he who was you
Found in the mud of a shower-fed pool,
For the fears that he felt and the joys that he knew
When a little green lizard crept into the school.
Pray as they pray who are maddened by wine:
For distraction from self and a spirit at rest.
Now, deep in the heart of you search for a sign
If there be naught of it, vain is your quest.
Lay down the book, for to follow the tale
Were to trade in false blame, as all mortals who fail.
And may the gods salve you on life's dreary round;
For 'tis whispered: 'Who finds not, 'tis he shall be found !'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Joi, The Glug
The Glugs abide in a far, far land
That is partly pebbles and stones and sand,
But mainly earth of a chocolate hue,
When it isn't purple or slightly blue.
And the Glugs live there with their aunts and their wives,
In draughty tenements built like hives.
And they climb the trees when the weather is wet,
To see how high they can really get.
Pray, don't forget,
This is chiefly done when the weather is wet.
And every shadow that flits and hides,
And every stream that glistens and glides
And laughs its way from a highland height,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they say, 'Our test is the best by far;
For a Glug is a Glug; so there you are!
And they climb the trees when it drizzles or hails
To get electricity into their nails;
And the Glug that fails
Is a luckless Glug, if it drizzles or hails.'
Now, the Glugs abide in the Land of Gosh;
And they work all day for the sake of Splosh.
For Splosh the First is the Nation's pride,
And King of the Glugs, on his uncle's side.
And they sleep at night, for the sake of rest;
For their doctors say this suits them best.
And they climb the trees, as a general rule,
For exercise, when the weather is cool.
They're taught at school
To climb the trees when the weather is cool.
And the whispering grass on the gay, green hills
And every cricket that skirls and shrills,
And every moonbeam, gleaming white,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they say, 'It is safe, the text we bring;
For a Glug is an awfully Glug-like thng.
And they climb the trees when there's sign of fog,
To scan the land for a feasible dog.
They love to jog
Through dells in quest of the feasible dog.'
Now the Glugs eat meals three times a day
Because their fathers ate that way.
And their grandpas said the scheme was good
To help the Glugs digest their food.
And it's wholesome food the Glugs have got,
For it says so plain on the tin and pot.
And they climb the trees when the weather is dry
To get a glimpse of the pale green sky.
We don't know why,
But they love to gaze on the pale green sky.
And every cloud that sails aloft,
And every breeze that blows so soft,
And every star that shines at night,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For they say, 'Our text is safe and true;
What one Glug does, the other Glugs do;
And they climb the trees when the weather is hot,
For a birds'-eye view of the garden plot.
Of course, it's rot,
But they love that view of the garden plot.'
At half-past two on a Wednesday morn
A most peculiar Glug was born;
And later on, when he grew a man,
He scoffed and sneered at the Chosen Plan.
'It's wrong!' said this Glug, whose name was Joi.
'Bah!' said the Glugs. 'He's a crazy boy!'
And they climbed the trees, as the West wind stirred,
To hark to the note of the guffer bird.
It seems absurd,
But they're awfully fond of the guffer bird.
And every reed that rustles and sways
By the gurgling river that plashes and plays,
And the beasts of the dread, neurotic night,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And, 'Why,' say they; 'it is easily done;
For a dexter Glug's like a sinister one!
And they climb the trees when the thunder rolls,
To soddenly salve their small, pale souls,
For they fear the coals
That threaten to frizzle their pale, pink souls.'
Said the Glug called Joi: 'This climbing trees
Is a foolish art, and things like these
Cause much distress in the land of Gosh.
Let's stay on the ground and kill King Splosh!'
But Splosh, the King, he smiled a smile,
And beckoned once to his hangman, Guile,
Who climbed a tree when the weather was calm;
And they hanged poor Joi on a snufflebust palm:
Then sang a psalm.
Did those pious Glugs 'neath the sufflebust palm.
And every bee that kisses a flower,
And every blossom, born for an hour,
And ever bird on its gladsome flight,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For they say: ''Tis a simple text we've got:
If you know one Glug, why you know the lot!
So they climbed a tree in the burgeoning Spring,
And they hanged poor Joi with some second-hand string.
It's a horrible thing
To be hanged by Glugs with second-hand string.
Then Splosh, the king, rose up and said:
'It's not polite; but he safer dead.
And there's not much room in th eland of Gosh
For a Glug named Joi and a king named Splosh!'
And ever Glug flung high his hat,
And cried, 'We're Glugs! And you can't change that!'
So they climbed the trees, since the weather was cold,
As their great-grandmothers climbed of old.
We are not told
Why Grandma climbed when the weather was cold.
And every cloud that sails the blue,
And every dancing sunbeam too,
And every spakling dewdropp bright,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
'We tell,' say they, 'by a simple test;
For any old Glug is like the rest.
And they climb the trees when there's weather about,
In a general way, as a cure for gout.
Though some folk doubt
If the climbing of trees is good for gout.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sym, Son of Joy
Now Joi, the rebel, he had a son
In far, far Gosh where the tall trees wave.
Said Joi: 'In Gosh there shall yet be one
To scorn this life of a self-made slave;
To spurn the law of the Knight, Sir Stodge,
And end the rule of the great King Splosh;
Who shall warn the Glugs of their crafty dodge,
And at last bring peace, sweet peace, to Gosh.'
Said he: 'Whenever the kind sun showers
His golden treasure on grateful flowers,
With upturned faces and hearts bowed low,
The Glugs shall know what the wild things know.'
Said he: 'Wherever the broad fields smile,
They shall walk with clean minds, free of guile;
They shall scoff aloud at the call of Greed,
And turn to their labours and never heed.'
So Joi had a son, and his name was Sym;
And his eyes were wide as the eyes of Truth;
And there came to the wondering mind of him
Long thoughts of the riddle that vexes youth.
And, 'Father,' he said, 'in the mart's loud din
Is there aught of pleasure? Do some find joy?'
But his father tilted the beardless chin,
And looked in the eyes of the questing boy.
Said he: 'Whenever the fields are green,
Lie still, where the wild rose fashions a screen,
While the brown thrush calls to his love-wise mate,
And know what they profit who trade with Hate.'
Said he: 'Whenever the great skies spread,
In the beckoning vastness overhead,
A tent for the blue wren building a nest,
Then, down in the heart of you, learn what's best.'
And there came to Sym as he walked afield
Deep thoughts of the world and the folk of Gosh.
He saw the idols to which they kneeled;
He marked them cringe to the name of Splosli.
Is it meet,' he asked, 'that a soul should crawl
To a purple robe or a gilded chair?'
But his father walked to the garden's wall
And stooped to a rose-bush flowering there.
Said he: 'Whenever a bursting bloom
Looks up to the sun, may a soul find room
For a measure of awe at the wondrous birth
Of one more treasure to this glad earth.'
Said he: 'Whenever a dewdropp clings
To a gossamer thread, and glitters and swings,
Deep in humility bow your head
To a thing for a blundering rnortal's dread.'
And there came to Sym in his later youth,
With the first clear glance in the face of guile,
Thirst for knowledge and thoughts of truth,
Of gilded baubles, and things worth while.
And he said, 'There is much that a Glug should know;
But his mind is clouded, his years are few.'
Then joi, the father, he answered low
As his thoughts ran back to the youth he knew.
Said he: 'Whenever the West wind stirs,
And birds in feathers and beasts in furs
Steal out to dance in the glade, lie still:
Let your heart teach you what it will.'
Said he: 'Whenever the moonlight creeps
Thro' inlaced boughs, a'nd a shy star peeps
Adown from its crib in the cradling sky,
Know of their folly who fear to die.'
New interest came to the mind of Sym,
As 'midst his fellows he lived and toiled.
But the ways of the Glug folk puzzled him;
For some won honour, while some were foiled;
Yet all were filled with a vague unrest
As they climbed their trees in an endless search.
But joi, the father, he mocked their quest,
When he marked a Glug on his hard-won perch.
Said he: 'Whenever these tales are heard
Of the Feasible Dog or the Guffer Bird,
Then laugh and laugh till the fat tears roll
To the roots of the joy-bush deep in your soul.
When you see them squat on the tree-tops high,
Scanning for ever that heedless sky,
Lie flat on your back on the good, green earth
And roar till the great vault echoes your mirth.'
As he walked in the city, to Sym there came
Sounds envenomed with fear and hate,
Shouts of anger and words of shame,
As Glug blamed Glug for his woeful state.
This blame?' said Sym, 'Is it mortal's right
To blame his fellow for aught he be?'
But the father said, 'Do we blame the night
When darkness gathers and none can see?'
Said he: 'Whenever there springs from earth
A plant all crooked and marred at birth,
Shall we, unlearned in the Gardener's scheme,
Blame plant or earth for the faults that seem?'
Said he: 'Whenever your wondering eyes
Look out on the glory of earth and skies,
Shall you, 'mid the blessing of fields a-bloom,
Fling blame at the blind man, prisoned in gloom?'
So Joi had a son, and his name was Sym;
Far from the ken of the great King Splosh.
And small was the Glugs' regard of him,
Mooning along in the streets of Gosh.
But many a creature by field and ford
Shared in the schooling of that strange boy,
Dreaming and planning to gather and hoard
Knowledge of all things precious to Joi.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Little Red Dog
The Glugs still live in the land of Gosh,
Under the rule of the great King Splosh.
And they climb the trees in the Summer and Spring,
Because it is reckoned the regular thing.
Down in the valley they live their lives,
Taking the air with their aunts and wives.
And they climb the trees in the Winter and Fall,
And count it improper to climb not at all.
And they name their trees with a thousand names,
Calling them after their Arts and Aims;
And some, they climb for the fun of the thing,
But most go up at the call of the King.
Some scale a tree that they fear to name,
For it bears great blossoms of scarlet shame.
But they eat of the fruit of the nameless tree,
Because they are Glugs, and their choice is free.
But every eve, when the sun goes West,
Over the mountain they call The Blest,
Whose summit looks down on the city of Gosh,
Far from the reach of the great King Splosh,
The Glugs gaze up at the heights above,
And feel vague promptings to wondrous love.
And they whisper a tale of a tinker man,
Who lives in the mount with his Emily Ann.
A great mother mountain, and kindly is she,
Who nurses young rivers and sends them to sea.
And, nestled high up on her sheltering lap,
Is a little red house with a little straw cap
That bears a blue feather of smoke, curling high,
And a bunch of red roses cocked over one eye.
And the eyes of it glisten and shine in the sun,
As they look down on Gosh with a twinkle of fun.
There's a gay little garden, a tidy white gate,
And a narrow brown pathway that will not run straight;
For it turns and it twists and it wanders about
To the left and the right, as in humorous doubt.
'Tis a humorous path, and a joke from its birth
Till it ends at the door with a wriggle of mirth.
And here in the mount lives the queer tinker man
With his little red dog and his Emily Arm.
And, once in a while, when the weather is clear,
When the work is all over, and even is near,
They walk in the garden and gaze down below
On the Valley of Gosh, where the young rivers go;
Where the houses of Gosh seem so paltry and vain,
Like a handful of pebbles strewn over the plain;
Where tiny black forms crawl about in the vale,
And stare at the mountain they fear them to scale.
And Sym sits him down by his little wife's knee,
With his feet in the grass and his back to a tree;
And he looks on the Valley and dreams of old years,
As he strokes his red dog with the funny prick ears.
And he says, 'Still they climb in their whimsical way,
While we stand on earth, yet are higher than they.
Oh, who trusts to a tree is a fool of a man!
For the wise seek the mountains, my Emily Ann.'
So lives the queer tinker, nor deems it a wrong,
When the spirit so moves him, to burst into song.
'Tis a comical song about kettles and pans,
And the graces and charms that are Emily Ann's.
'Tis a mad, freakish song, but he sings it with zest,
And his little wife vows it of all songs the best.
And he sings quite a lot, as the Summer days pass,
With his back to a tree and his feet in the grass.
And the little red dog, who is wise as dogs go,
He will hark to that song for a minute or so,
'With his head on one side, and a serious air.
Then he makes no remark; but he wanders elsewhere.
And he trots down the garden to gaze now and then
At the curious pranks of a certain blue wren:
Not a commonplace wren, but a bird marked for fame
Thro' a grievance in life and a definite aim.
Now, they never fly far and they never fly high,
And they probably couldn't, suppose they should try.
So the common blue wren is content with his lot:
He will eat when there's food, and he fasts when there's not.
He flirts and he flutters, his wife by his side,
With his share of content and forgiveable pride.
And he keeps to the earth, 'mid the bushes and shrubs,
And he dines very well upon corpulent grubs.
But the little blue wren with a grievance in life,
He was rude to his neighbours and short with his wife.
For, up in the apple-tree over his nest,
There dwelt a fat spider who gave him no rest:
A spider so fat, so abnormally stout
That he seemed hardly fitted to waddle about.
But his eyes were so sharp, and his legs were so spry,
That he could not be caught; and 'twas folly to try.
Said the wren, as his loud lamentations he hurled
At the little red dog, 'It's a rotten old world!
But my heart would be glad, and my life would be blest
If I had that fat spider well under my vest.
Then I'd call back my youth, and be seeking to live,
And to taste of the pleasures the world has to give.
But the world is all wrong, and my mind's in a fog!'
'Aw, don't be a Glug!' said the little red dog.
Then, up from the grass, where he sat by his tree,
The voice of the Tinker rose fearless and free.
The little dog listened, his head on one side;
Then sought him a spot where a bored dog could hide.
'Kettles and pans! Ho, kettles and pans!
The stars are the gods' but the earth, it is man's!
Yet down in the shadow dull mortals there are
Who climb in the tree-tops to snatch at a star:
Seeking content and a surcease of care,
Finding but emptiness everywhere.
Then make for the mountain, importunate man!
With a kettle to mend . . . and your Emily Ann.
As he cocked a sad eye o'er a sheltering log,
'Oh, a Glug is a Glug!' sighed the little red dog.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heart Of The Country
A candle burns in the
Heart of the country
The flame fades though
I see to it sadly
It takes me further away
Than I have ever been
I wait and the darkness comes
I pray for my only one
And I wonder if you ever
Will see this land again
We took this land
And we brought it goodness
It's taken everything
And left only emptiness
I am not broken
Although I have the seeds in me
I wait and the darkness comes
I pray for my only one
And I wonder if you ever
Will see this land again
I hide my face against the sun
I hide my fear from everyone
But I've had enough of secrets
They're all lies we're scared to tell
I just need someone to be with
I just need to say you fell
There's nothing out here
But me and a whisper
And now it's failing
I won't even listen
I watch the fall and it's
Time that I was leaving too
I wait and the darkness comes
I pray for my only one
And I wonder if you ever
Will see this land again
I wait and the darkness comes
I pray for my only one
And I wonder if you ever
Will see this land again
I wait and the darkness comes
I pray for my only one
And I wonder if you ever
Will see this land again
I wait and the darkness comes
I pray for my only one
And I wonder if you ever
Will see this land again
song performed by by Anni Frid Lyngstad from Shine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The End of Joi
They climbed the trees . . . As was told before,
The Glugs climbed trees in the days of yore,
When the oldes tree in the land to-day
Was a tender little seedling - Nay,
This climbing habit was old, so old
That even the cheeses could not have told
When the past Glug people first began
To give their lives to the climbing plan.
And the legend ran
That the art was old as the mind of man.
And even the mountains old and hoar,
And the billows that broke on Gosh's shore
Since the far-off neolithic night,
All knew the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they tell of a perfectly easy way:
For yesterday's Glug is the Glug of to-day.
And they climb the trees when the thunder rolls,
To solemnly salve their shop-worn souls.
For they fear the coals
That threaten to frizzle their shop-worn souls.
They climbed the trees. 'Tis a bootless task
To say so over again, or ask
The cause of it all, or the reason why
They never felt happier up on high.
For Joi asked why; and Joi was a fool,
And never a Glug of the fine old school
With fixed opinions and Sunday clothes,
And the habit of looking beyond its nose,
And treating foes
With the calm contempt of the One Who Knows.
And every spider who heaves a line
And trusts to his luck when the day is fine,
Or reckless swings from an awful height,
He knows the Glugs quite well by sight.
'You can never mistake them,' he will say;
'For they always act in a Gluglike way.
And they climb the trees when the glass points fair,
With circumspection and proper care,
For they fear to tear
The very expensive clothes they wear.'
But Joi was a Glug with a twisted mind
Of the nasty, meditative kind.
He'd meditate on the modes of Gosh,
And dared to muse on the acts of Splosh;
He dared to speak, and, worse than that,
He spoke out loud, and he said it flat.
'Why climb?' said he. 'When you reach the top
There's nowhere to go, and you have to stop,
Unless you drop.
And the higher you are the worse you flop.'
And every cricket that chirps at eve,
And scoffs at the folly of fools who grieve,
And the furtive mice who revel at night,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For, 'Why,' they say, ' in the land of Gosh
There is no one else who will bow to Splosh.
And they climb the trees when the rain pelts down
And feeds the gutters that thread the town;
For they fear to drown,
When floods are frothy and waters brown.'
Said the Glug called Joi, 'This climbing trees
Is a foolish art, and things like these
Cause much distress in the land of Gosh.
Let's stay on the ground and kill King Splosh!'
But Splosh, the king, he smiled a smile,
And beckoned once to his hangman, Guile,
Who climbed a tree when the weather was calm;
And they hanged poor Joi on a Snufflebust Palm;
Then they sang a psalm,
Did those pious Glugs 'neath the Snufflebust Palm.
And every bee that kisses a flow'r,
And every blossom, born for an hour,
And every bird on its gladsome flight,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For they say, ''Tis a simple test we've got:
If you know one Glug, why, you know the lot!'
So, they climbed a tree in the bourgeoning Spring,
And they hanged poor Joi with some second-hand string.
'Tis a horrible thing
To be hanged by Glugs with second-hand string.
Then Splosh, the king, rose up and said,
'It's not polite; but he's safer dead.
And there's not much room in the land of Gosh
For a Glug named Joi and a king called Splosh!'
And every Glug flung high his hat,
And cried, 'We're Glugs! and you can't change that!'
So they climbed the trees, since the weather was cold,
While the brazen bell of the city tolled
And tolled, and told
The fate of a Glug who was over-bold.
And every cloud that sails the blue,
And every dancing sunbeam too,
And every sparkling dewdropp bright
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
'We tell,' say they, 'by a simple test;
For any old Glug is like the rest.
And they climb the trees when there's weather about,
In a general way, as a cure for gout;
Tho' some folks doubt
If the climbing habit is good for gout.'
So Joi was hanged, and his race was run,
And the Glugs were tickled with what they'd done.
And, after that, if a day should come
When a Glug felt extra specially glum,
He'd call his children around his knee,
And tell that tale with a chuckle of glee.
And should a little Glug girl or boy
See naught of a joke in the fate of Joi,
Then he'd employ
Stern measures with such little girl or boy.
But every dawn that paints the sky,
And every splendid noontide high,
All know the Glugs so well, so well.
'Tis an easy matter, and plain to tell.
For, lacking wit, with a candour smug,
A Glug will boast that he is a Glug.
And they climb the trees, if it shines or rains,
To settle the squirming in their brains,
And the darting pains
That are caused by rushing and catching trains
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I live for my dreams.
She comes to me in dreams at night.
And holds me as she used to do.
But disappears by morning light
So I am left to grieve anew..
There’s no one left to comfort me
My family are long since gone.
I wait for nightfall eagerly
Just for a while I’m not alone.
Each night before I sleep I pray
My love will come to visit me.
Although I’ll face another day
of loneliness and misery.
They say that passing time will heal.
For some perhaps it may be true.
But not for me because I feel
the anguish still of losing you.
I know somewhere you wait for me.
You can’t return and won’t go on.
You know we have eternity.
That I will follow where you’ve gone.
When death released you from your pain.
And left your spirit free to fly.
You promised me we’d meet again.
Now all I do is wonder why.
Fate decided that we should be.
Forced to go our separate ways
Parted arbitrarily.
Condemning me to lonely days.
She comes to me by night in dreams
and holds me as she used to do
When for a while at least it seems
as if my dreams will soon come true.
I pray each night I will not wake.
To be set free to rejoin you.
A journey I will gladly make.
There’s nothing here for me to do.
Tuesday,15 March 2011
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Stones of Gosh
Now, here is a tale of the Glugs of Gosh,
In the end of the year umteen;
Of the Glugs of Gosh and their great King Splosh,
And Tush, his virtuous Queen.
And here is a tale of the Oglike Ogs,
In their neighbouring land of Podge;
Of their sayings and doings and plottings and brewings,
And something about Sir Stodge.
Wise to profundity,
Stout to rotundity,
That was the Knight Sir Stodge.
Oh, the King was rich, and the Queen was fair,
And they made a very respectable pair.
And whenever a Glug in that peaceful land,
Did anything no one could understand
The Knight, Sir Stodge, he looked in a book,
And charged that Glug with a crime called Crook.
And the great Judge Fudge, who wore for a hat
The skin of a female tortoise-shell cat,
He fined that Glug for his actions rash,
And frequently asked to be paid in cash.
Then every Glug went home to rest
With his head in a bag and his toes to the west;
For they knew it was best,
Since their grandpas slept with their toes to the west.
But all of the tale that is so far told
Has nothing whatever to do
With the Ogs of Podge, and their crafty dodge,
And the trade in pickles and glue.
To trade with the Glugs came the Ogs to Gosh,
And they said in the mildest of tones,
'We'll sell you pianers and pickels and spanners
For seventeen shiploads of stones
Smooth 'uns or nobbly 'uns,
Firm 'uns or wobbly 'uns,
All that we ask is stones.'
And the King said, 'What?' and the Queen said, 'Why,
That is awfully cheap to the things I buy!
That grocer of ours in the light brown hat
Asks two-and-eleven for pickles like that!'
But a Glug stood up with a wart on his nose,
And he cried, 'Your Majesties! Ogs is foes!'
But the Glugs cried, 'Peace! Will you hold your jaw!
How did our grandpas fashion the law?'
Said the Knight, Sir Stodge, as he opened a book,
'If the goods were cheap then the goods they took.'
So they fined the Glug with the wart on his nose
For wearing a wart with his everyday clothes.
And the goods were brought home through a Glug named Jones;
And the Ogs went home with their loads of stones,
Which they landed with glee in the land of Podge.
Do you notice the dodge?
Not yet? Well, no more did the Knight, Sir Stodge.
In the following Summer the Ogs came back
With a cargo of eight-day clocks,
And hand-painted screens, and sewing machines,
And mangles, and scissors, and socks.
And they said, 'For these excellent things we bring
We are ready to take more stones;
And in bricks or road-metal for goods you will settle
Indented by your Mister Jones.'
Cried the Glugs praisingly:
'Why, how amazingly
Smart of industrious Jones!'
And the King said, 'Hum,' and the Queen said, 'Oo!
That curtain! What a bee-ootiful blue!'
But a Glug stood up with some very large ears,
And said, 'There is more in this thing than appears!
So we ought to be taxing these goods of the Ogs,
Or our industry soon will be gone to the dogs.'
And the King said, 'Bosh! You're un-Gluggish and rude!'
And the Queen said, 'What an absurd attitude!'
Then the Glugs cried, 'Down with political quacks!
How did our grandpas look at a tax?'
So the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book.
'No tax,' said he, 'wherever I look.'
Then they fined the Glug with the prominent ears
For being old-fashioned by several years;
And the Ogs went home with the stones, full-steam.
Do you notice the scheme?
Not yet? Nor did the Glugs in their dreamiest dreams.
Then every month to the land of the Gosh
The Ogs they continued to come,
With buttons and hooks and medical books
And rotary engines and rum,
Large cases with labels, occasional tables,
Hair tonic and fiddles and 'phones;
And the Glugs, while copncealing their joy in the dealing,
Paid promptly in nothing but stones.
Why, it was screamingly
Laughable, seemingly
Asking for nothing but stones!
And the King said, 'Haw!' and the Queen said, 'Oh!
Our drawing-room now is a heavenly show
Of large overmantels and whatnots and chairs,
And a statue of Splosh at the head of the stairs.'
But a Glug stood up with a cast in his eye,
And he said, 'Far too many baubles we buy;
With all the Gosh factories closing their doors,
And importers' warehouses lining our shores.'
But the Glugs cried, 'Down with such meddlesome fools!
What did our grandpas lay down in their rules?'
And the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book:
'To cheapness,' he said, 'was the road they took.'
Then every Glug who was not too fat
Turned seventeen handsprings, and jumped on his hat.
And they fined the Glug with the cast in his eye
For looking two ways at the tenth of July,
And for having no visible Precedent, which
Is a crime in the poor and a fault in the rich.
And the Glugs cried 'Strooth!' whihc is Gluggish, you know,
For a phrase that, in English, is charmingly low.
Are you grasping it? No?
Well, we haven't got very much farther to go.
Now it chanced one day, in the middle of May,
There came to the great King Splosh
A policeman who said, while scratching his head:
'There isn't a stone in Gosh
To throw at a dog; for the crafty Og,
Last Saturday week, at one,
Took our last blue-metal in order to settle
A bill for a toy pop-gun.'
Said the King, jokingly:
'Why, how provokingly
Weird! But we have the gun.'
And the King said: 'Well, we are stony broke!'
But the Queen couldn't see it was much of a joke.
And she said: 'If the metal's all used up,
Pray what of the costume I want for the Cup?
It all seems so dreadfully simple to me.
The stones? Why import them from over the sea!'
But a Glug stood up with a mole on his chin,
And he said, with a most diabolical grin:
'Your Majesties, down in the country of Podge
A spy has unravelled a very cute dodge;
And the Ogs are determined to wage a war
On the Glugs next Friday, at half-past four!'
Then the Glugs all cried in a terrible fright:
'How did our grandpas manage a fight?'
And the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened a book,
And he read: 'Some very large stones they took
And flung at the foe with exceeding force;
Which was very effective, though rude, of course.'
And, lo, with sorrowful wails and moans,
The Glugs cried: 'Where, oh, where are the stones?'
And some rushed north, and a few ran west,
Seeking the substitutes seeming best.
And they gathered the pillows and cushions and rugs
From the homes of the rich and the middle-class Glugs.
And a hasty message they managed to send
Craving the loan of some bricks from a friend.
Do you now comprehend?
Well, hold on at the curve, for we're nearing the end.
On Friday exactly at half-past four
Came the Ogs with a warlike glee;
And the first of their stones hit poor Mr. Jones,
The Captain of Industry.
Then a pebble of Podge took the Knight, Sir Stodge,
In the pit of his convex vest.
He muttered 'Un-Gluggish!' His heart grew sluggish,
He solemnly sank to rest,
'Tis inconceivable
Hardly believable
Yet he was sent to rest.
And the King said 'Ouch!' and the Queen said 'Oo!
My bee-ootiful drawing-room! What shall I do?'
But the Oglike Ogs they hurled great rocks
Through the works of the wonderful eight-day clocks
They had sold to the Glugs but a month before
Which is very absurd, but, of course, it's war.
And the Glugs cried: 'What would our grandpas do
If they hadn't the stones that they one time threw?'
But the Knight, Sir Stodge, and his mystic book
Oblivious slept in a graveyard nook.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Blue-Flag In The Bog
God had called us, and we came;
Our loved Earth to ashes left;
Heaven was a neighbor's house,
Open to us, bereft.
Gay the lights of Heaven showed,
And 'twas God who walked ahead;
Yet I wept along the road,
Wanting my own house instead.
Wept unseen, unheeded cried,
"All you things my eyes have kissed,
Fare you well! We meet no more,
Lovely, lovely tattered mist!
Weary wings that rise and fall
All day long above the fire!"—
Red with heat was every wall,
Rough with heat was every wire—
"Fare you well, you little winds
That the flying embers chase!
Fare you well, you shuddering day,
With your hands before your face!
And, ah, blackened by strange blight,
Or to a false sun unfurled,
Now forevermore goodbye,
All the gardens in the world!
On the windless hills of Heaven,
That I have no wish to see,
White, eternal lilies stand,
By a lake of ebony.
But the Earth forevermore
Is a place where nothing grows,—
Dawn will come, and no bud break;
Evening, and no blossom close.
Spring will come, and wander slow
Over an indifferent land,
Stand beside an empty creek,
Hold a dead seed in her hand."
God had called us, and we came,
But the blessed road I trod
Was a bitter road to me,
And at heart I questioned God.
"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all
That the heart would most desire,
Held Earth naught save souls of sinners
Worth the saving from a fire?
Withered grass,—the wasted growing!
Aimless ache of laden boughs!"
Little things God had forgotten
Called me, from my burning house.
"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all
That the eye could ask to see,
All the things I ever knew
Are this blaze in back of me."
"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all
That the ear could think to lack,
All the things I ever knew
Are this roaring at my back."
It was God who walked ahead,
Like a shepherd to the fold;
In his footsteps fared the weak,
And the weary and the old,
Glad enough of gladness over,
Ready for the peace to be,—
But a thing God had forgotten
Was the growing bones of me.
And I drew a bit apart,
And I lagged a bit behind,
And I thought on Peace Eternal,
Lest He look into my mind:
And I gazed upon the sky,
And I thought of Heavenly Rest,—
And I slipped away like water
Through the fingers of the blest!
All their eyes were fixed on Glory,
Not a glance brushed over me;
"Alleluia! Alleluia!"
Up the road,—and I was free.
And my heart rose like a freshet,
And it swept me on before,
Giddy as a whirling stick,
Till I felt the earth once more.
All the earth was charred and black,
Fire had swept from pole to pole;
And the bottom of the sea
Was as brittle as a bowl;
And the timbered mountain-top
Was as naked as a skull,—
Nothing left, nothing left,
Of the Earth so beautiful!
"Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?"
"You are all I have," I said;
"What is left to take my mind up,
Living always, and you dead?"
"Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something!
Make a sign that I can see!
For a keepsake! To keep always!
Quick!—before God misses me!"
And I listened for a voice;—
But my heart was all I heard;
Not a screech-owl, not a loon,
Not a tree-toad said a word.
And I waited for a sign;—
Coals and cinders, nothing more;
And a little cloud of smoke
Floating on a valley floor.
And I peered into the smoke
Till it rotted, like a fog:—
There, encompassed round by fire,
Stood a blue-flag in a bog!
Little flames came wading out,
Straining, straining towards its stem,
But it was so blue and tall
That it scorned to think of them!
Red and thirsty were their tongues,
As the tongues of wolves must be,
But it was so blue and tall—
Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!
All my heart became a tear,
All my soul became a tower,
Never loved I anything
As I loved that tall blue flower!
It was all the little boats
That had ever sailed the sea,
It was all the little books
That had gone to school with me;
On its roots like iron claws
Rearing up so blue and tall,—
It was all the gallant Earth
With its back against a wall!
In a breath, ere I had breathed,—
Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!—
I was kneeling at its side,
And it leaned its head on me!
Crumbling stones and sliding sand
Is the road to Heaven now;
Icy at my straining knees
Drags the awful under-tow;
Soon but stepping-stones of dust
Will the road to Heaven be,—
Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Reach a hand and rescue me!
"There—there, my blue-flag flower;
Hush—hush—go to sleep;
That is only God you hear,
Counting up His folded sheep!
Lullabye—lullabye—
T hat is only God that calls,
Missing me, seeking me,
Ere the road to nothing falls!
He will set His mighty feet
Firmly on the sliding sand;
Like a little frightened bird
I will creep into His hand;
I will tell Him all my grief,
I will tell Him all my sin;
He will give me half His robe
For a cloak to wrap you in.
Lullabye—lullabye—"Rocks the burnt-out planet free!—
Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Reach a hand and rescue me!
Ah, the voice of love at last!
Lo, at last the face of light!
And the whole of His white robe
For a cloak against the night!
And upon my heart asleep
All the things I ever knew!—
"Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord,
For a flower so tall and blue?"
All's well and all's well!
Gay the lights of Heaven show!
In some moist and Heavenly place
We will set it out to grow.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Preface: Old Gosh Rhyme
Let him who is minded to meet with a Glug
Pluck three hardy hairs from a rabbit-skin rug;
Blow one to the South, and one to the West,
Then burn another and swallow the rest.
And who shall explain 'tis the talk of a fool,
He's a Glug! He's a Glug of the old Gosh school!
And he'll climb a tree, if the East wind blows,
In a casual way, just to show he knows . . .
Now, tickle his toes!
Oh, tickle his toes!
And don't blame me if you come to blows.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Gipsy Trail
The white moth to the closing bine,
The bee to the opened clover,
And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
Ever the wide world over.
Ever the wide world over, lass,
Ever the trail held true,
Over the world and under the world,
And back at the last to you.
Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,
Out of the grime and the gray
(Morning waits at the end of the world),
Gipsy, come away!
The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp
The red crane to her reed,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
By the tie of a roving breed.
The pied snake to the rifted rock,
The buck to the stony plain,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
And both to the road again.
Both to the road again, again!
Out on a clean sea-track -
Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
Over the world and back!
Follow the Romany patteran
North where the blue bergs sail,
And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,
And the masts are shod with mail.
Follow the Romany patteran
Sheer to the Austral Light,
Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,
Sweeping the sea-floors white.
Follow the Romany patteran
West to the sinking sun,
Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.
And the east and west are one.
Follow the Romany patteran
East where the silence broods
By a purple wave on an opal beach
In the hush of the Mahim woods.
'The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.'
The heart of a man to the heart of a maid -
Light of my tents, be fleet.
Morning waits at the end of the world,
And the world is all at our feet!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Gypsy-Trail
The white moth to the closing bine,
The bee to the opened clover,
And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
Ever the wide world over.
Ever the wide world over, lass,
Ever the trail held true,
Over the world and under the world,
And back at the last to you.
Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,
Out of the grime and the gray
(Morning waits at the end of the world),
Gipsy, come away!
The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp
The red crane to her reed,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
By the tie of a roving breed.
The pied snake to the rifted rock,
The buck to the stony plain,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
And both to the road again.
Both to the road again, again!
Out on a clean sea-track --
Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
Over the world and back!
Follow the Romany patteran
North where the blue bergs sail,
And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,
And the masts are shod with mail.
Follow the Romany patteran
Sheer to the Austral Light,
Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,
Sweeping the sea-floors white.
Follow the Romany patteran
West to the sinking sun,
Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.
And the east and west are one.
Follow the Romany patteran
East where the silence broods
By a purple wave on an opal beach
In the hush of the Mahim woods.
"The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old."
The heart of a man to the heart of a maid --
Light of my tents, be fleet.
Morning waits at the end of the world,
And the world is all at our feet!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nellie Lost and Found
Ten o'clock! the rain begins to fall,
And Nellie still from home!
Vainly now, her loving name we call,
Oh whither does she roam!
Can it be she wanders from the street,
Thro' the wood to find her lonely way,
Bless the child! I fear her little feet
Have carried her astray.
Wake the boys to search for Nellie!
Stay not for the dawn;
Who shall sleep when from the mother's fold
One little lamb is gone.
Eleven of o'clock! the little brothers wait,
Still hoping her return;
Peeping through the lattice of the gate,
Their darling to discern.
Weary now they turn them to the door,
While their tears, for lips that now are dumb,
Ask the question often asked before,
Oh mother will she come!
Twelve o'clock! and in the forest wild,
What terrors rule the hour!
Who can tell what foe surround the child,
Or shield her from their power.
Storm face and torrents to be cross'd,
Beasts of prey that in the darkness roam;
Would to God that only I were lost,
And Nellie safe at home!
One o'clock! methinks I hear a voice,
With tidings in its tone!
Does it bid this trembling heart rejoice,
Or sorrow makes it known.
Still I heard that midnight echo stirr'd,
Surely too, it bears a joyful sound;
Praise the Lord! a mother's pray'r is heard,
The darling one is found!
Through the wood the midnight echoes
Bear a joyful sound;
Praise the Lord! a mother's pray'r is heard,
The darling one is found.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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I Pray
When I was young I dreamed about
Oh so many places
When I was young I never thought Id be afraid
The years go by and with them comes
Oh so many changes
You know what I mean
I pray theres another day
Sunshine on the morning water
What a day was yesterday, hmm
I pray there will be an answer
I pray
And in my youth I realized nothing lasts forever
I find myself remembering those happy days
Follow me, Ill show you all the colors of the rainbow
You know what I mean
I pray theres another day
Sunshine on the morning water
What a day was yesterday, hmm
I pray there will be an answer
I pray
Dont wait, dont be late
You dont have a second left to hesitate
Walk, talk, do it all
Nothing you can do will break the fall
Turn and turn
Tell me what are you seeing
Clear your mind
If you want to be free
Be there
Turn around expectations
Say goodbye to complications
Be there, be there
I pray theres another day
Sunshine on the morning water
What a day was yesterday, hmm
I pray there will be an answer
I pray
I pray
I pray
I pray theres another day
Sunshine on the morning water
What a day was yesterday, hmm
I pray there will be an answer
I pray
I pray
I pray
I pray theres another day
I pray there will be an answer
I pray...
song performed by by Ace Of Base
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Will Follow
Yonder mountain so high
I cant make it all on my own, no
Rolling river why so wide?
To sweep me up and to bear me on
Up against the sky so bright
That I cant even close my eyes
I know I will follow (follow love)
Yes, yes, I will follow (follow love)
I will follow (follow love)
Follow love
Growing slowly like a tree
Someday soon, darling I love you
I love you
Soft and gentle, full summer moon
Set my soul free
Thank you, baby
Drifting like a cloud in the sky
I can see myself from high above
I know I must follow (follow love)
Somehow I will follow (follow love)
I must follow (follow love)
Follow love
Oh, half the future and half the past
Theyre waiting inside your eyes
Yes, and after all of this
To last and last
Till at last its your time to rise, rise
True believer that I am
I am blind, lead me on (lead me on)
Blessed receiver of your love
I own my own time
And Ive been holding on (holding on)
Leave the word unspoken
And the spell will not be broken
And Im bound to follow, now (follow love)
I know I must go (follow love)
I must follow (follow love)
Yes, I must follow (follow love)
Someone to hold my hand (follow love)
Somebody to lead me on(follow love)
Somebody to walk beside me (follow love)
Someone to follow me now (follow love)
I must follow love (follow love)
I will fall in love
I will follow love (follow love)
Anywhere it leads me
I will follow love (follow love)
Follow love
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Light In The Window
Rain and wind and candlelight
And let us pray a prayer to-night:
For every soul, since life is brief,
Little of trouble and less of grief.
And set a light at the windowpane,
To guide Love home through the night and rain.
Rain and wind and candlelight
And what shall we pray again to-night?
For every life, whose way is dim,
The grace of God and trust in Him.
A word, a song, till the tears be dried,
And Faith and Hope sit down beside.
Rain and wind and candlelight
And one last prayer to pray to-night:
For every heart in the dark and rain
To know its prayer is not in vain:
A door flung wide, and a face aglow
Love come back from the Long-Ago.
Then let the rain and the wind without
Threaten their worst and rave and shout:
For who will care, though the night is black
Love to his own has wandered back.
Has wandered back through the rain and night,
Led home again by her candle's light.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem for a mother whose lost her son
I held him safe within my womb
And kissed him in the birthing room
I held his hand in sickness too
And now I don't know what to do
My son, my child, my flesh and bone
Has died and left me all alone
And in the night when no one sees
I cry and end up on my knees
I cry to God and ask Him why
My precious son he had to die
And when the morning light appears
That's one more night I've spent in tears
And as the years they slip away
I learn to live just day by day
I turn to God who was so far
I look to where the answers are
I put my hand into His hand
He pulls me up and now I stand
I hear my Father say to me
'My Son He died upon a tree
I know the pain that mothers feel
When life turns black and robs and steals
And takes a portion of your heart
And tears your very soul apart'
Oh Lord I pray, please make me whole
Replace the joy that life has stole
This pain, this loss, is part of me
But still I'm longing to be free
I choose to walk out through the door
And melancholy reigns no more
I leave behind the shades of grey
To walk in light, to kneel and pray
' Come to me child, I've heard your cry
I saw your tears when your child died
Rest in me and find your peace
Replace your pain and find release'
Despite the fact we had to part
You still live on within my heart
There'll never be a day go by
A tear wont fall from your mother's eye
poem by Frank McEleny
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Fate
There once lived an olive green frog
in the back of a half-rotten log.
He was killed in his sleep
well, the log wasn't deep
and the killer was simply a hog.
As for truffles the hog searched in vain
it was clearer than glass and quite plain,
in his terrible mood
he came wholly unglued
but he later was hit by a train.
Thus the hog and the frog bought the farm,
it was sad that there was no alarm,
though the frog owned a clock
which went tick and then tock
'till the sun was well past the yardarm.
But one night there was Ezel the lizard,
he was known in the woods as a wizard.
Called to fix for the frog
his small clock in the log
a small spring disappeared in his gizzard.
Since no parts were on hand for the clock
they marked North and then South on a rock.
It would show them the time
(the idea was sublime)
'till the clock parts again were in stock.
But, the sun let them down and slept in.
(It is said she is partial to Gin) ,
thus two critters lost big
through no fault of the pig
but the lizard's huge overbite chin.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Itylus
Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring?
A thousand summers are over and dead.
What hast thou found in the spring to follow?
What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?
What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?
O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,
The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?
Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?
Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the south;
But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire,
Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and sweet small mouth
Feed the heart of the night with fire.
I the nightingale all spring through,
O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,
All spring through till the spring be done,
Clothed with the light of the night on the dew,
Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,
Take flight and follow and find the sun.
Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow,
Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber,
How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet?
For where thou fliest I shall not follow,
Till life forget and death remember,
Till thou remember and I forget.
Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,
I know not how thou hast heart to sing.
Hast thou the heart? is it all past over?
Thy lord the summer is good to follow,
And fair the feet of thy lover the spring:
But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?
O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,
My heart in me is a molten ember
And over my head the waves have met.
But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow
Could I forget or thou remember,
Couldst thou remember and I forget.
O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,
The heart's division divideth us.
Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow
To the place of the slaying of Itylus,
The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.
O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,
I pray thee sing not a little space.
Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?
The woven web that was plain to follow,
The small slain body, the flower-like face,
Can I remember if thou forget?
O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!
The hands that cling and the feet that follow,
The voice of the child's blood crying yet
Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ogs
It chanced one day, in the middle of May,
There came to the great King Splosh
A policeman, who said, while scratching his head,
There isn't a stone in Gosh
To throw at a dog; for the crafty Og,
Last Saturday week, at one,
Took our last blue-metal, in order to settle
A bill for a toy pop-gun.'
Said the King, jokingly,
'Why, how provokingly
Weird; but we have the gun.'
And the King said, 'Well, we are stony-broke.'
But the Queen could not see it was much of a joke.
And she said, 'If the metal is all used up,
Pray what of the costume I want for the Cup?
It all seems so dreadfully simple to me.
The stones? Why, import them from over the sea.'
But a Glug stood up with a mole on his chin,
And said, with a most diabolical grin,
'Your Majesties, down in the country of Podge,
A spy has discovered a very 'cute dodge.
And the Ogs are determined to wage a war
On Gosh, next Friday, at half-past four.'
Then the Glugs all cried, in a terrible fright,
'How did our grandfathers manage a fight?'
Then the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book,
And he read, 'Some very large stones they took,
And flung at the foe, with exceeding force;
Which was very effective, tho' rude, of course.'
And lo, with sorrowful wails and moans,
The Glugs cried, 'Where, Oh, where are the stones?'
And some rushed North, and a few ran West;
Seeking the substitutes seeming best.
And they gathered the pillows and cushions and rugs
From the homes of the rich and middle-class Glugs.
And a hasty message they managed to send
Craving the loan of some bricks from a friend.
On the Friday, exactly at half-past four,
Came the Ogs with triumphant glee.
And the first of their stones hit poor Mister Ghones,
The captain of industry.
Then a pebble of Podge took the Knight, Sir Stodge,
In the curve of his convex vest.
He gurgled 'Un-Gluggish!' His heart growing sluggish,
He solemnly sank to rest.
'Tis inconceivable,
Scarcely believable,
Yet, he was sent to rest.
And the King said, 'Ouch!' And the Queen said, '0o!
My bee-ootiful drawing-room! What shall I do?'
But the warlike Ogs, they hurled great rocks
Thro' the works of the wonderful eight-day clocks
They had sold to the Glugs but a month before -
Which was very absurd; but, of course, 'twas war.
And the Glugs cried, 'What would our grandfathers do
If they hadn't the stones that they one time threw?'
But the Knight, Sir Stodge, and his mystic Book
Oblivious slept in a grave-yard nook.
Then a Glug stood out with a pot in his hand,
As the King was bewailing the fate of his land,
And he said, 'If these Ogs you desire to retard,
Then hit them quite frequent with anything hard.'
So the Glugs seized anvils, and editors' chairs,
And smote the Ogs with them unawares;
And bottles of pickles, and clocks they threw,
And books of poems, and gherkins, and glue,
Which they'd bought with the stones - as, of course, you know
From the Ogs but a couple of months ago.
Which was simply inane, when you reason it o'er;
And uneconomic, but then, it was war.
When they'd fought for a night and the most of a day,
The Ogs threw the last of their metal away.
Then they went back to Podge, well content with their fun,
And, with much satisfaction, declared they had won.
And the King of the Glugs gazed around on his land,
And saw nothing but stones strewn on every hand:
Great stones in the palace, and stones in the street,
And stones on the house-tops and under the feet.
And he said, with a desperate look on his face,
'There is nothing so ghastly as stones out of place.
And, no doubt, this Og scheme was a very smart dodge.
But whom does it profit - my people, or Podge?'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Nunhead Cemetary
It is the clay what makes the earth stick to his spade;
He fills in holes like this year after year;
The others have gone; they were tired, and half afraid
But I would rather be standing here;
There is nowhere else to go. I have seen this place
From the windows of the train that's going past
Against the sky. This is rain on my face -
It was raining here when I saw it last.
There is something horrible about a flower;
This, broken in my hand, is one of those
He threw it in just now; it will not live another hour;
There are thousands more; you do not miss a rose.
One of the children hanging about
Pointed at the whole dreadful heap and smiled
This morning after THAT was carried out;
There is something terrible about a child.
We were like children last week, in the Strand;
That was the day you laughed at me
Because I tried to make you understand
The cheap, stale chap I used to be
Before I saw the things you made me see.
This is not a real place; perhaps by-and-by
I shall wake - I am getting drenched with all this rain:
To-morrow I will tell you about the eyes of the Chrystal Palace train
Looking down on us, and you will laugh and I shall see what you see again.
Not here, not now. We said 'Not yet
Across our low stone parapet
Will the quick shadows of the sparrows fall.
But still it was a lovely thing
Through the grey months to wait for Spring
With the birds that go a-gypsying
In the parks till the blue seas call.
And next to these, you used to care
For the Lions in Trafalgar Square,
Who'll stand and speak for London when her bell of Judgement tolls -
And the gulls at Westminster that were
The old sea-captains souls.
To-day again the brown tide splashes step by step, the river stair,
And the gulls are there!
By a month we have missed our Day:
The children would have hung about
Round the carriage and over the way
As you and I came out.
We should have stood on the gulls' black cliffs and heard the sea
And seen the moon's white track,
I would have called, you would have come to me
And kissed me back.
You have never done that: I do not know
Why I stood staring at your bed
And heard you, though you spoke so low,
But could not reach your hands, your little head;
There was nothing we could not do, you said,
And you went, and I let you go!
Now I will burn you back, I will burn you through,
Though I am damned for it we two will lie
And burn, here where the starlings fly
To these white stones from the wet sky - ;
Dear, you will say this is not I -
It would not be you, it would not be you!
If for only a little while
You will think of it you will understand,
If you will touch my sleeve and smile
As you did that morning in the Strand
I can wait quietly with you
Or go away if you want me to -
God! What is God? but your face has gone and your hand!
Let me stay here too.
When I was quite a little lad
At Christmas time we went half mad
For joy of all the toys we had,
And then we used to sing about the sheep
The shepherds watched by night;
We used to pray to Christ to keep
Our small souls safe till morning light - ;
I am scared, I am staying with you to-night -
Put me to sleep.
I shall stay here: here you can see the sky;
The houses in the street are much too high;
There is no one left to speak to there;
Here they are everywhere,
And just above them fields and fields of roses lie -
If he would dig it all up again they would not die.
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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