The Deserted Village
There's a road on the hill, leads down to the plain
Where once was a village before the Black Plague,
And the old stone walls that marked off the fields
Lie hidden by the village called Tiverton Lees.
Where the gorse has flourished since the old crops died
Laid waste, un-nourished through the countryside,
And the old plough furrows ripple down through the vale
Where the farmhands idled, swilling lunchtime ale!
There are marks on the ground, along the main street
Worn smooth by the passages of carts and feet,
And the old foundations of the King's Head Inn
Lie stark, untroubled, where the men filed in.
The land lies fallow by the old cattle byres
While hearthstones, burnt, tell of warm cottage fires,
Of children, spooning at their hot pottages,
And wives, sat darning in their warm cottages.
But the mounds, in relief, lie, row after row
And the hillside's grief sighs, covered in snow,
When the world turned once, and caught at its breath
To visit on the village what they called ‘The Black Death! '
Lost, all lost, are the dreams and the tears,
The love that was made, and the hopes and the fears,
There hasn't been a burial, wedding or a sneeze
For seven hundred years, in Tiverton Lees!
5 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Funeral
The village lay in silence
As I lounged there, on the hill,
The grass so soft and evergreen,
The flowers, petalled still,
The morning sun shone brightly
As I lay, without a care,
And watched the village come awake,
I watched the village stir.
The baker with his basket
Dropping off each loaf of bread,
The milkman chinking bottles
As the wives stirred from their bed,
The countrymen at breakfast
Peering out to greet the day,
The cock had crowed just once that morn,
The fox had had its way.
Then later on that morning
I could hear the church bell toll,
And the mourners, dressed in black
Filed out, the widow in her shawl,
Her walk seemed so familiar,
I guessed it was a friend,
And pondered on this life of ours,
How soon it seemed to end.
The bearers soon appeared, heads bowed,
The coffin seemed so slight,
To carry all those hopes and dreams
Toward that final night,
They led the whole procession
At a stately, regal pace,
Toward the path up on the hill
Where God would lend him grace.
They weaved and turned along the track
Where lay the cemetery,
I stood as they approached, I saw
They'd have to pass by me,
But then the vicar halted as
He came into my view,
I asked: ‘Who is the fallen one? '
He said: ‘We come for you! '
12 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Snowed In By A Warm Fire
A visit to an Inn on top of a hill.
A view, a valley, a village, a pond.
Snow already covering the ground.
Snow falling steadily all around.
The hills, the trees, the branches,
The drives, the roads, the highways.
All are covered in new fallen snow.
All are silent as the snow falls.
Snowflakes large, silent, slowly falling.
Snowflakes drifting, covering the ground.
Snow falling steadily through the day;
Snow falling steadily through the night.
Soon ankle deep, then up to your knees;
Soon three feet covers all there is.
Snowed in. The highways are closed.
Snowed in, as I wait by the warm fire.
poem by Joe Wocoski
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Song - The Church Hall in Drummore
She’s sitting down beside the wall
When the music starts to play
I’m walking slowly ‘cross the hall
And I'm lost for words to say
I know her name and nothing more
But there’s something in her eyes
We’re in the village of Drummore
In the Church Hall side by side
Some kind of spell falls over us
It's the nineteen seventies
We’re oh so young and lost for love
And we gently start to kiss
Her lips are soft; she holds me tight
And we’re seized by tenderness
But something took me off that night
From her sweet and tender lips
From time to time I think of you
In your village by the shore
And how the years so quickly flew
Since we kissed then touched no more
I caught your eye in Mill Street once
And we said a warm hello
It turned my thoughts to love and chance
In the church hall in drummore
(chorus)
I held you in my arms that night
A short and precious time
And you were more than you’ll ever know
So long ago dear in Drummore
Rage...paİ N And Shame
unfortunately outburst a big rage.......on our small border village.....on a windy and damned day....who are these black men...with black masks on face...from darkness...with guns..machine guns and turrets...with light armour weapons...aimed on humans....how dare...they ki, ll small chidren...men and women...how dare...even children in their mothers'...even not born yet..not a bbay yet....even praying...how this vengeance and rage emerged and fed..who are this hatred men with gun....combing the wedding crowd with bullets.....pain and shame covered this village..near the border...in fact near the border of humanity.....but no traces of regret.....when will this hatred end....nobody knows yet...thr bulldosers...the graders....the excavators dug the graves..of fifty human beings....a moment before were livings...it is spring may be may...hopeless tears shed....and never end...dug soil smells spring...body..sometimes corpse...chidren unaware..play on newly dug graves...interlocked...they play hide and seek....but the some hidden will never come out...tears are shed...mournings....elegies sung...it was a wedding ceremony...turning into a burial ceremony...suddenly in a moment...rage outburst...a funeral..pell_mell..informal...that is real...not a dream..death is side by side...with living...is a part of life...but should not have come so easy...should not have fallen on even not babies..in their mothers'....not born yet...graders..bulldozers...excavators...dug the graves..pell-mell...things are not developing well...for humanity....really...mournings...tears shed....elegies sung and cried....never stopping and will not stop yet..rage ..pain and shame...emerging from the small village near the border..scattered...and... covered all over the world...neverless...stealthily ..and slowly...in darkness
poem by Metin Sahin
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Global Village
Global village
Though we are all human
we are made to be different
by forces beyond our clout
Yet they want remake us
in a new image of their choice
in a village too big to be safe
The world they now call
a single village in the globe
with a big brother to match
As long as we are second class
within that large village fashioned
we would be subjected to
someone’s standards
someone’s culture
someone’s technology
someone’s understanding
someone’s world view
someone’s theories and concepts
They try hard in harder ways
to make us part of that village
but we know we are different
and shall strive to leave outside
that fashioned unsafe village
poem by Yusuf Adamu
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Woman of Stone
I saw her first by the apple tree
Where she picked the ripe red fruit,
Her auburn hair in a twisted coil
And a crinoline to suit,
I saw her eyes as she turned to me
Two azure pools, afloat;
But they didn't hazard a glance at me,
Not even a single glance at me,
She didn't venture a glance at me
As my song died in my throat!
I lost control of my heart that day
I could neither eat nor drink,
Though I felt my substance fade away
I was too confused to think,
And a fever took me, by and by,
I took to my bed, a week,
But she never came to visit me,
Not even a thought to visit me,
I'd have given the earth to visit me
While my spirit lay so bleak!
She had a million suitors then
And she turned them all away,
They said that the grass was dry and sere
In the meadow, where she lay,
She made it known she was quite content
In life, to be left alone,
She hadn't the need for men, she said,
Not even one special man, she said,
‘I'd rather be left for dead, ' she said;
They called her: ‘Woman of Stone! '
She taunted and teased, quite merciless,
She treated men with contempt,
She'd flutter her painted eyelashes
In the Halls of the Regiment,
And many an Officer fell for her
In his red and his golden braid,
‘I never did like a uniform,
Too bad, you're wearing a uniform! '
She'd turn her back on a uniform
And she'd smile as she walked away.
They said she'd been left at the altar
When she was barely seventeen,
She'd chosen a young subaltern, who
Renewed his vows to the Queen,
His regiment marched away that day
To the fields at Waterloo,
He carried his musket high with pride
Then tramped in mud through the countryside,
His blood was scattered both far and wide
When the battle was finally through!
I started attending the balls where she
Was teasing and taunting still,
I never was much of a dancer, but
I can foot a mean quadrille;
I tried my best to ignore her there,
Danced gaily round with a friend,
Whenever we'd meet, I'd turn away,
Look anywhere else, but not betray
The hints in her eyes or her body's sway,
And I'd leave before the end!
The number of balls was endless when
The soldiers came marching home,
They feted the Duke of Wellington
For beating the Frenchies own;
And still I tried to avoid her there
This Caroline Ainslie Stack,
She'd follow me round the ballroom then,
A dancing card and a thrust out pen
But I wouldn't sign, again and again,
Her eyes turned slowly black.
She caught me up in the village street,
She backed me against a wall,
Then said: ‘It's not a man but a mouse
Won't dance with me at the ball! '
I shrugged and murmured, and took my leave
She followed me all the way home;
I tried to remember the things I said
That night, it rattles on through my head,
I found her lying across my bed
Without a stitch of her own!
We married, back in the spring this year,
Caroline's starting to show,
She holds my arm on the way to church
And she greets with a warm ‘Hello! '
I've never told how I fell in love,
How she cut me, clear to the bone,
But on evenings here, as warm as this
I can taste of my woman's magic kiss,
And she tells me, ‘Dear, we live in bliss! '
She does - my Woman of Stone!
15 March 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Karma
He looked down over the valley,
Over the verdant green and trees,
And suddenly felt so humbled
That he sighed, and fell to his knees,
He'd only been out a single day
With the world before him spread,
So still he could hear those prison gates
As they'd clanged behind, in his head.
He'd finished his twenty seven years
He'd paid society's due,
Locked in a cell of eight by ten
For the things that he'd had to do,
He'd shown no mercy to Annabel,
No more to the Widow Peak,
He'd drowned them, just as he meant to do
When they'd met, in less than a week.
He thrilled at the thought of their staring eyes
As he held them down in the bath,
Watching their lives leach out of them,
Just as he'd done with Kath,
There'd been so many, he'd not confessed
But been convicted for two,
The other ten would have got him life
Without reprieve, if they knew.
He went to live in the valley
Rented a cottage under the trees,
Owned by a man called Anderson
Who'd visited him for years,
He'd said he knew of a valley where
He could start his life again,
He'd said, ‘Now here is your second chance,
Back in the world of men! '
He wandered round in the cottage
Took in the bathroom at a glance,
Took in the nice deep marble tub
With a smirk and a rub of his hands,
The village was just a walk away
But he'd give it a day or two,
Then check for a widow or single girl
At the store, as he wandered through.
He spent the night reminiscing
Thinking of all those staring eyes,
Of Kristen Poole, that silly young fool
That he'd fed with outrageous lies,
Her mouth had flapped like a goldfish
As she fought in a bleak despair,
But nearly a foot of water lay
Between her face and the air.
And who was that girl, that Marigold,
That he'd met in the Shop ‘n Save?
He'd thought that her name was Sanderson,
She didn't know how to behave,
She'd said her brother looked out for her
Would interfere with her fun,
But once in a bath of water,
It would only be fun for one.
He lay and stared at the ceiling as
He felt quite suddenly cold,
The name of his mentor Anderson
Came creeping back to his soul,
He heard the rushing of water
Off in the distance, up on the heights,
And made his way to the village
Lying in darkness, deep in the night,
The cottages all were empty
So was the chapel, totally bare,
The door of the shop was open
Nothing but garbage left in there,
He turned and ran up the village street
But the thunder was hard at his heels,
When a wall of water, ten feet high
Rushed over the verdant fields.
They'd opened the sluices at the dam
To flood the Valley at night,
To turn it into a reservoir
For a city that lay nearby,
The villagers had been gone for a month
But they stood and they watched the tide,
Flooding their tiny cottages
While Anderson laughed, and cried!
11 November 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Sonnet LXII
Written on passing by Moon-light through a Village,
while the ground was covered with Snow.
WHILE thus I wander, cheerless and unblest,
And find in change of place but change of pain;
In tranquil sleep the village labourers rest,
And taste that quiet I pursue in vain!
Hush'd is the hamlet now, and faintly gleam
The dying embers, from the casement low
Of the thatch'd cottage; while the Moon's wan beam
Lends a new lustre to the dazzling snow--
O'er the cold waste, amid the freezing night,
Scarce heeding whither, desolate I stray;
For me, pale Eye of Evening, thy soft light
Leads to no happy home; my weary way
Ends but in sad vicissitudes of care:
I only fly from doubt--to meet despair!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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My Little Black Butterfly
I caught a little black butterfly,
I kept it in a jar.
I carried it with me
Where I went, near and far.
It listened to my problems,
My sorrows and my grief;
It kept me from self-destruction,
It brought me sweet relief.
My butterfly became my best friend,
My whole world in a jar,
So I had no need for real friends
For they all seemed under par.
Eventually, my butterfly withered
Fro the pressure of my sighs,
So much I believed it began to hate me,
And it shriveled up and died.
I wept and sobbed for days upon days-
Nothing could tame my tears-
For my black butterfly listened to me cry
And fluttered away all of my fears.
I mourned for my little black butterfly,
For it was so much more-
It was my friend, my family,
My confidante, and my haven-
Which is dead, but not lost.
My little black butterfly is gone,
But it still remains,
Fluttering on,
In my mind.
poem by Airohng Liebe
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A Homeless Man's Departure
After the Rebellion of 755, all was silent wasteland,
gardens and cottages turned to grass and thorns.
My village had over a hundred households,
but the chaotic world scattered them east and west.
No information about the survivors;
the dead are dust and mud.
I, a humble soldier, was defeated in battle.
I ran back home to look for old roads
and walked a long time through the empty lanes.
The sun was thin, the air tragic and dismal.
I met only foxes and raccoons,
their hair on end as they snarled in rage.
Who remains in my neighborhood?
One or two old widows.
A returning bird loves its old branches,
how could I give up this poor nest?
In spring I carry my hoe all alone,
yet still water the land at sunset.
The county governor's clerk heard I'd returned
and summoned me to practice the war-drum.
This military service won't take me from my state.
I look around and have no one to worry about.
It's just me alone and the journey is short,
but I will end up lost if I travel too far.
Since my village has been washed away,
near or far makes no difference.
I will forever feel pain for my long-sick mother.
I abandoned her in this valley five years ago.
She gave birth to me, yet I could not help her.
We cry sour sobs till our lives end.
In my life I have no family to say farewell to,
so how can I be called a human being?
The Worthless
Swimming across a river-edge,
a tiger came to a village;
a burning fire-bright tiger;
whichever house he visit
they offer him stool to sit.
Once a poor farmer made him plough his field,
a helpless old man made him carry his load.
He is in good terms with the sad harlot
who lives in the margin of the village.
He tried to preach no religion,
he died also like the typically worthless folks!
(Translated from Bangla by Raihan Sharif)
poem by Rayhan Rhyne
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A Little Cottage
A little cottage nestled in the hills,
its roof is thatched
and it windows carry Georgian squares.
In its garden pretty flowers grow;
while in the fields,
seeds of corn are sown.
Snug within its stonewalls
lives a family,
husband, wife and their two sons.
Sadness filled the cottage one day
when the sons were called to war.
Candles were lit; prayers were said
for their safe return.
Years rolled by, paintwork peeled,
but the little cottage was still a home
with its fire warm.
Day after day, year after year
they waited for their sons return.
Then came what they dreaded most,
letters laced with black
to say that their sons had fallen
in fields far away
and would not be coming back.
A wreath of black hangs on the door
for their soldier boys
who will come home no more.
Sorrow again gripped the walls.
As years followed,
the little cottage fell into disrepair.
Within this once happy home
only sadness rang.
The husband and wife
grew old in their years,
but always held the memory
of two young lost lives.
Slowly they too faded away.
Now the little cottage
stands silent for all to see.
Falling down from lack of repair,
but always holding memories
of happiness once there.
poem by David Harris
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Village Ghetto Land
Would you like to go with me
Down my dead end street
Would you like to come with me
To village ghetto land
See the people lock their doors
While robbers laugh and steal
Beggars watch and eat their meals-from garbage cans
Broken glass is everywhere
Its a bloody scene
Killing plagues the citizens
Unless they own police
Children play with rusted cars
Sores cover their hands
Politicians laugh and drink-drunk to all demands
Families buying dog food now
Starvation roams the streets
Babies die before theyre born
Infected by the grief
Now some folks say that we should be
Glad for what we have
Tell me would you be happy in village ghetto land
Village ghetto land
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song - Monie a Smile, Monie a Tear
There’s monie a smile and monie a tear
On the mystery tour that brings us here
It’s monie a mile and monie a year
Since you and I sailed fae the crumbling stane pier
It’s time noo tae quit the ocean o’ dreams
Tae gan hame tae the village by the trees
And the wun was fair; we had followin’ seas
Your een were glowin and your heart was free
I lost myself in an whirlpool of words
In a world of hunger, egos and swords
I searched for a song to make it alright
Way back whun everything was black an’ white
And time was wi' us for monie a mile
When the starlight was bright and filled the night
Our hopes reached the sky, and strangers were friends
The waves weren’t breakers between us back then
When we were the morning, fresh as the breeze
Blowin’ oot fae the village by the trees
Noo the loch and glens, and the trees and the hills
The oul stane harbour, they’re all waiting still
And roon the ledges o’ galloway’s cliffs
There’s flocks o' herring gulls and razor bills
And doon by the surge at the Yellow Isle
There’s monie a curse and monie a smile
Or is this me back to the dreamin’ again
Oe'r the bridges of time consigned to flames
When kids fell in love by the oul village shop
And stole tender kisses doon by the White Loch
Tae set them aff doon the road that leads here
Windin’ far fae the village by the trees
Meola
Of the tools from Africa and of the minds of the other world,
Drying up my Cocoa Beans in my village to share my views;
For you are the August Lady who paid ma a visit in August and,
I will never forget that date of the sweet love that we shared.
The African Rhythms,
And of the music of love to share at times;
But, the 'Chop-Bars' do wait for us in the Townships.
Meola! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
You are on the coastal lines of Africa to share my love;
For there are much fish for you my love,
And it is like the words of my ancestors to teach you my love.
Of yesterday's rain,
And of the love that we share around today like the waters;
For you are all that i have at hand, Meola.
Should not the shepard feed the flock? !
For the entrance of your tent is very wet to let me in,
Because the rain is still falling.
There lie the rhythms and,
There lie the hopes and dreams;
For i am drying up my Cocoa Beans in my village for you,
And hope to see you soon after all these years.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Villagers
Pop/du prey
The villagers are out tonight
Uptight and bored
Theyre pushing you
Underground
On wintry days they stand and gaze
Outlines in black and ignorant
Villagers
Dark shadows house a sleepy malice
In the backbrain
Of every body you meet
Man is the village animal
United by the glue
Of our loathsome qualities
We are sneaking peeping toms
In revolt against each other
The villagers are most insane
They live to die anonymous
And muted to... villagers
In revolt against the other
But not against the rules
So in the space age the village idiot rules
On tv for all to see while some good men
Walk the streets
Unh unh unh unh unh
The villagersssssss arghhh
You cant get lost you cant get lost
In the village of space you cant get lost
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Village Idiot
Did you see the lad, on the corner
He was standing drinking wine
Wears his overcoat in the summer
And short sleeves in the winter time
Takes his holidays, down at the bookies
Well he knows how to pick a horse
Village tramping round the countryside
He wears a smile, but he doesnt say much
Village idiot, hes complicated
Village idiot, simple mind
Village idiot, he does know something
But hes just not saying
Dont you know hes onto something
You can see it, you can see it in his eyes
Sometimes he looks so happy
As he goes strolling by
Oh village idiot, hes complicated
Village idiot, hes got a simple mind
Village idiot, must know something
But hes just not saying
Well you all know hes onto something
You can see it in his eyes
Sometimes he looks so happy
When he goes walking by
Sometimes he looks so happy
When he goes walking by
Sometimes he looks so happy
When he goes walking by.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wild Eyed Boy From Freecloud
Solemn faced
The village settles down
Undetected by the stars
And the hangman plays the mandolin before he goes to sleep
And the last thing on his mind
Is the wild eyed boy imprisoned
Neath the covered wooden shaft
Folds the rope
Into its bag
Blows his pipe of smolders
Blankets smoke into the room
And the day will end for some
As the night begins for one
Staring through the message in his eyes
Lies a solitary son
From the mountain called freecloud
Where the eagle dare not fly
And the patience in his sigh
Gives no indication
For the townsmen to decide
So the village dreadful yawns
Pronouncing gross diversion
As the label for the dog
Oh its the madness in his eyes
As he breaks the night to cry
Its really me
Really you
And really me
Its so hard for us to really be
Really you
And really me
Youll lose me though Im always really free
And the mountain moved its eyes
To the world of realize
Where the snow had saved a place
For the wild eyed boy from freecloud
And the village dreadful cried
As the rope began to rise
For the smile stayed on the face
Of the wild eyed boy from freecloud
And the women once proud
Clutched the heart of the crowd
As the boulders smashed down from the mountains hand
And the magic in the stare
Of the wild eyed boy, said
Stop, freecloud
They wont think to cut me down
But the cottages fell
Like a playing card hell
And the tears on the face
Of the wise boy
Came trembling down
To the rumbling ground
And the missionary mystic of peace/love
Stumbled to cry among the clouds
Kicking back the pebbles
From the freecloud mountain track
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Castle in the Marsh
The Castle out in the marshes ruled
The serfs with an iron rod,
The yeomen, hidden in cottages,
Were careful where they trod,
The soldiers poured from the Castle walls
And rode the peasants down,
They stole the women they caught abroad
And returned to the Castle grounds.
There was only a single causeway that
Was guarded, night and day,
Many a father came to grief
When crossing the moat, to pay,
To save his daughter from certain shame,
A fate that, worse than death,
Was tearing the heart from Amber Vale
As the mothers mourned, distressed.
The Baron, Ralph Fitzherbert held
His acres from the King,
(That William, known as Rufus, who
Would hunt most anything) ,
He was known as ‘Baron Slaughter'
For he murdered them at will,
He burdened them all with taxes,
Raped and pillaged, and then he'd kill.
The women held in the Castle Keep
Were set to work, and raped,
They scrubbed in the kitchen galley, cooked
The food, and cleaned the grate,
Two of their number were trusted to
Go out in the misty marsh,
Collecting the herbs and mushrooms for
The Captain of the Guard.
But Aethelflaed had been pregnant with
Fitzherbert's only son,
She came to term in the August and
She hated everyone:
‘The boy's as good as a Norman, I'm
The wife of a Saxon squire, '
She wept, and then she had strangled it,
Throwing it in the fire!
Fitzherbert ranted all day long,
Lamenting what she'd done,
‘I should have known that a Saxon whore's
Not fit to bear my son! '
He stripped and flayed ‘til the flesh had peeled,
‘Til he thought that his arm would tire,
Then dragged her over the hearth, and placed
Her hands in the blazing fire!
They hung her naked from a tree
As the villagers came to wail,
Then rode and murdered her husband there
In the village of Amber Vale,
The women held in the Castle wept
At the Normans' cruelty,
They'd whisper: ‘That was Aethelflaed,
But it might as well be me! '
The Baron held a feast that night
And they drank of their Norman wine,
From casks brought in from Normandy
But opened before they dined,
By midnight they were vomiting
Were helpless, caught in a trance,
From the berries of deadly nightshade squeezed
As the women began to dance.
They lopped off every soldier's head
As they lay, none thought it harsh,
Then they bound and carried the Baron out
And thrust him into the marsh,
With an apple jammed in his gaping jaw
And his glaring eyes so big,
He sank ‘til his head was all they saw
Like the head of a slaughtered pig.
The trees at Amber Vale were hung
With a strange but exotic fruit,
The heads of the soldiers hanging there
With their coats of mail, to suit,
They stormed the Castle and burnt it down
The ruins would make you quail,
For Belladonna is nurtured there
By the village of Amber Vale!
2 September 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Yattendon
Among the woods and tillage
That fringe the topmost downs,
All lonely lies the village,
Far off from seas and towns.
Yet when her own folk slumbered
I heard within her street
Murmur of men unnumbered
And march of myriad feet.
For all she lies so lonely,
Far off from towns and seas,
The village holds not only
The roofs beneath her trees:
While Life is sweet and tragic
And Death is veiled and dumb,
Hither, by singer's magic,
The pilgrim world must come.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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