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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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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Village Green
Out in the country,
Far from all the soot and noise of the city,
Theres a village green.
Its been a long time
Since I last set eyes on the church with the steeple
Down by the village green.
twas there I met a girl called daisy
And kissed her by the old oak tree.
Although I loved my daisy, I saw fame,
And so I left the village green.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And now all the houses
Are rare antiquities.
American tourists flock to see the village green.
They snap their photographs and say gawd darn it,
Isnt it a pretty scene?
And daisys married tom the grocer boy,
And now he owns a grocery.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And I will return there,
And Ill and daisy,
And well sip tea, laugh,
And talk about the village green.
We will laugh and talk about the village green.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Rainbow
The rain came down in swirls that day,
The rain came down in sheets,
We sat in the back of the S.U.V.
As the rain, it turned to sleet.
‘I think it’ll show by Bleddows Hill
When the storm decides to pass’,
I said to Ben as the clock struck ten
From the tower of Gormenghast!
I set the G.P.S. to range,
And checked the lat. and long.,
I’d bought a second-hand S.D.A.*
To track it, right or wrong,
The rain kept up its steady beat
The clouds were dull and grey,
For never a beam of moon or sun
Had shown, for many a day!
‘You’d better go wait in the Jeep, ’ I said,
‘And turn your mobile on,
Be ready to move at the speed of light
At the first bright glimpse of the sun,
For no-one’s uncovered the pot of gold
That lies at the end of the bow,
It’s led them a merry dance, ’ I said,
‘But now, at last, we’ll know! ’
So Ben sat up in the Jeep, he did,
But wet, and drenched to the bone,
I got the feeling he’d rather be
Asleep, in bed, at home!
We sat for over an hour out there,
In wait, for the sun to shine,
While I took notes from the G.P.S.
As it helped to pass the time.
Then out from a gap in a darkening cloud
A beam shone out, from the sun,
The air was suddenly light and clear
And the rain was almost gone,
A coloured bow shot over the hill
And into the air, at last,
It curved toward the village to point
At the tower of Gormenghast!
I spat the figures to Ben on the phone
And the Jeep leapt over the hill,
I kept the bow on the G.P.S.,
And tracked its movement well;
‘It only moves if I follow it,
It stays if I hold it still…’
We thought that science had tamed the way
That a rainbow rose, and fell!
Ben chased the bow to the village street
To the tower of Gormenghast,
Where the S.D.A. had pinned it down
With the G.P.S. at last,
And he dug and dug, ‘til an earthen pot
Lay there with the note it spilled,
Inscribed: ‘This is the poor man’s end;
The rich bit’s over the hill! ’
(11 August 2011)
poem by David Lewis Paget
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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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A Pavement Cafe
In the café where I sit I can see the village’s church, nice building
typical Portuguese architecture and painted white. I walked inside
it once, didn’t like that so much, as it had dark corners and whiffed
of sins not yet forgiven. It is quiet here now as the people prepare
for winter sleep in damp houses. There are a few tourists about
mostly elderly bad on their feet. The church bell tolls one o’clock,
it is good to know time even in Paradise. Today I will go for a walk
in the village’s cemetery a lovely place full of flowers and often
with pictures of the departed when they looked ruddily healthy
and the claw of death had yet to touch them; and I mustn’t forget
the good silence. Whatever the argument was it means nothing
anymore. The waiter brings me a coffee and a sly cigarette which
I smoke with guilty pleasure, yet looking out for my doctor he often
comes here for his coffee. Yes, this is another perfect day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Rays Of Hope
RAYS OF HOPE
Hole of the cell brings the hope of rays,
These rays are sun-rays
Which dance in the cell of prison from morning to evening?
In morning when sun-rays touch my forehead
They recall the blessings of my mother and father.
In evening when sun-rays lit up the wall of the cell
They tell me that miseries are not universal,
They end as night ends in the morning.
Sun-rays also memorizes the morning of my village and sun set on the hill near the village.
These rays also vitalize me and create patient in me so I can bear the difficulties of the prison.
Now I am hopeful that in near future I will come out from the prison and meet my beloved people.
Because they are waiting for me as I am waiting for the sun-rays of the morning.
(From the diary of a prisoner)
poem by Vijay Gupta
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Essence of the Village and new dawn!
Soot over the chimney
And hoot wakes up the moody.
A Man wears an overall
With a spade he puts charcoal.
Moves slowly the steam engine
Early in the morning!
Train goes passing meadows
Cows eat the grass
Ferry crosses and the church bell rings
Village awakes!
The baker rolls the dough
A man with a plough,
The van brings the newspapers from the town
And the middle aged skinny driver's strange behaviour
With the widowed milkmaid turned into a new folklore
And sooner or later that definitely goes to the paper?
to my faraway poet friend robyn selters in gratitude!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Song for girl in checkered shawl
gentle girl
in checkered shawl
in Safonkovo,
the artist's village
charming girl
and of delicate smile
in your simple rustic clothes
like any other girl everywhere
with her dreams, her loves
flowering in time, coming of age
with nature's rhythms
girl of desires and wishes
and warmth and good heart
anonymous, unknown
and growing and marrying and begetting
and loving and nurturing and passing
in time past, another age
another clime
and this your lovely smile
that reaches us from your village
this the beauty of you
O girl in checkered shawl
in Safonkovo
the artist's village
this look of you, Venetsianov
sends from the distant past -
this
I breathe in like
I breathe the fresh air
in an early Spring morning,
O darling girl of Safonkovo
poem by Raj Arumugam
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The Story Of Ali Rıza And Ahmet
How strange is the story of
Ali Rıza and Ahmet
One lives in the village
The other in the city
And every morning
The one in the city goes to the village
And the one in the village to the city
poem by Orhan Veli Kanik
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Widow of Massacre
Some said she lost,
None said she crossed,
Nothing was known clear
Something about her was fear.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
If asked, she never say,
because witness you can pay,
She lost hee husband,
Then lost her hand.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
Behind her, there're stories,
Behind stories, there's worries,
Her village was ambushed,
And in bullets, washed.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
She survived the claws of wild,
After death of her single child,
Finally she ran to this village,
Where we paid her homage.
Everything, though said
She's a widow of massacre.
poem by Buyunde Acura Sylivester
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The Crowing of the Roosters
Come to the village
and listen to the crowing roosters
up the branches of the trees
announcing the breaking
of a bright new day.
Come to the village
Walk the miles of the road
Have a pause from the roaring buses,
The dazzles on the streets
And the endless list of activities.
Come to the village
And learn from the roosters
Resting on the silent trees
Communing with nature
And speaking to man and woman
The great early morning of peace.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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The Church of Wenslow Haze
The sea that batters the eastern coast
Has often subdued the land,
Five hundred years have seen the retreat
Of a mile of cliffs and sand,
When tides are low in the summertime
From beneath the distant swell,
The villagers lying abed at night
Hear the tolling of a bell.
The bell resounds up the village street
And rattles the cobblestones,
As the villagers close the shutters tight
And lock the doors of their homes,
They hear the thump of a wooden stump
As it echoes along the street,
The wooden leg of the mate, John Clegg
From Drake's Armada Fleet!
The thump is steady and purposeful
As it heads towards the sea,
Where the bell still rings for matins
As in 1563,
When priests were burned for popery
In the England of those days,
They used the little singing cakes
In the Church of Wenslow Haze!
John Clegg was a surly protestant
In the service of the Queen,
So the use of the cakes for massing bread -
He thought it was quite obscene!
The vicar had leant to the Roman Church,
The Reverend Walter Raise,
And Clegg had stood and harangued him there
In the Church of Wenslow Haze.
‘You'll bring your Popish habits here
At the risk of mortal pain,
I fought for the Queen Elizabeth
To see off the King of Spain,
If you don't revert to the massing bread
And the Book of Common Prayer,
I'll see to the piling of faggots
When they burn you in the square! '
But Walter Raise would never be stayed
By the threats of an ignorant tar,
He said: ‘I only answer to God
For the what and the where we are!
The form is not as important as
The salving of the soul,
You'd better look to your own before
The Devil takes you all! '
But Clegg had waited for matins, he
Returned with a burning brand,
Set fire to the ancient tapestries
The pews and the altar stand,
He raised his cutlass and brought it down
On the Romish vicar's head,
And he cursed the Church of Wenslow Haze
As the vicar lay there, dead!
The sea rose up in a sudden storm
And it swept across the land,
Engulfed the Church of Wenslow Haze
As if raised by God's own hand,
The land had tilted beneath the sea
And the church, it settled deep,
With the bodies of Clegg and Walter Raise
And the bell-tower, and the keep!
So now when the tide repents and drops
To a fathom, over the bell,
The toll rings out from the surly deep
Like a call to the fiends from hell,
And a stump sounds over the cobblestones
As Clegg, for his soul's sake pays,
He carries a burning fire brand
To the Church of Wenslow Haze.
29 July,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Ghost Bear, page 1 of 4
Long ago, in a small village
Where the Great River meets the
Limitless Salt Sea, lived Muin Manitu,
An aging shaman.
Ghost Bear had two good wives
Who gave him four fine daughters
And many grand-children.
But now both wives were dead.
Ghost Bear was getting old,
So old that he made his death song
Mumbling it often under his breath
So he would not forget it.
One night, Raven came to Ghost Bear
In a dream, bringing an important message.
“You must leave wigwam and village,
before the sun rises again.”
“This must be my time, ” thought
Ghost Bear, “My time to die.
I am glad. It is a good time
to leave this world.”
And so, taking only his knife and
His Medicine Bag, Ghost Bear pushed
His canoe out into the river while
All the village slept.
“I will go west on the Great River, ”
Thought Ghost Bear to himself, “Then,
When it is my time to go, I will be
pointed in the right direction.”
All morning long, Ghost Bear paddled
Westward on the Great River, and when
Sun was directly above him, he saw
A raven flying high above.
“I am going true, ” he thought, “Raven
Has sent me an unmistakeable sign.”
And Ghost Bear kept paddling with
Neither food nor drink.
As day became night, Ghost Bear
Continued on, for the full moon was bright
And showed him the right path on the
Great River clearly, brightly.
poem by John Bliven Morin
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Village Blacksmith, The
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I
I am the son of my village, ,
I am born in the dreams of my father
and my childhood is his craft,
and the blossoming of my mother's garden.
So, often in my journey the fragrances of my village soil nourish me,
the messages of my mother hug me
and I draw warmth.....
I am the definition of my dreams, , ,
dreams those are birth less, ,
dreams ageless, ,
dreams those are indifferent to failure and success..
dreams those can decorate each of life's blank page, , ,
I am my best companion, , ,
Though I cannot hold my own hands, ,
I am my only guide, ,
In each of my failure and victory, ,
I have taken guard and declared to them they
aren't important to me more than myself...
I have invited myself to newness and gifted myself a new quest,
I am my best friend, ,
I am my strongest critic
and I am my deepest lover, , ,
drinking my own blood, sweat and tears, , ,
believe me, I have nullified the chances of betrayal....
I am a lover, , ,
though I have never met love...
for love is a statue and so it stays,
I am son of my village
On the palms of infinite I travel from nowhere to nowhere..
I am the song of the sky, , ,
and my pain is deeper than blue, ,
I have been friend of my father, , ,
and lover of my mother.
I am the son of my village..
So often in the journey
the fragrances of village soil nourish me,
and I draw warmth
The Speed Of Light
So gradual in those summers was the going
of the age it seemed that the long days setting out
when the stars faded over the mountains were not
leaving us even as the birds woke in full song and the dew
glittered in the webs it appeared then that the clear morning
opening into the sky was something of ours
to have and keep and that the brightness we could not touch
and the air we could not hold had come to be there all the time
for us and would never be gone and that the axle
we did not hear was not turning when the ancient car
coughed in the roofer's barn and rolled out echoing
first thing into the lane and the only tractor
in the village rumbled and went into its rusty
mutterings before heading out of its lean-to
into the cow pats and the shadow of the lime tree
we did not see that the swallows flashing and the sparks
of their cries were fast in the spokes of the hollow
wheel that was turning and turning us taking us
all away as one with the tires of the baker's van
where the wheels of bread were stacked like days in calendars
coming and going all at once we did not hear
the rim of the hour in whatever we were saying
or touching all day we thought it was there and would stay
it was only as the afternoon lengthened on its
dial and the shadows reached out farther and farther
from everything that we began to listen for what
might be escaping us and we heard high voices ringing
the village at sundown calling their animals home
and then the bats after dark and the silence on its road
poem by William Stanley Merwin
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The future is in your hand
Once there was a little girl living in a village
She wanted to find out what her future would reveal
So she wondered to whom should she ask her future
Finally got the idea that it must be her star
So one starry night she climbed up a steep hill
To become closer to the stars so that she could hail
On reaching the top of the hill she cried out aloud
'Oh, my star, please tell what future holds for me now.'
On hearing the words a little star shone brightly
And with a smile it replied to the girl sweetly
'My girl don't worry about your future too much'
'For it is your own hands in which the future is grasped.'
poem by Henry Chen
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Night Worker
A spider spun his web all night
and waited patiently.
A fly had circled all the morn
and buzzed there cautiously.
The spider watched and stayed so still.
No movement did he make.
And by and by the fly descended
and landed wide-awake.
He spotted the spider and tried his best
to escape the sticky trap.
The spider watched and slowly moved
and the fly with his handicap
became the bait inside the web
that the spider made at night.
The spider had his breakfast early
in the morning light.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Picture Of Greed
on one hand
he carries a
big loaf of bread
on the other
he carries a
basket
of the same
loaf of bread
on his head
is another
basket of
the same loaf
of bread
a little child
spreads his
hands for
a loaf of bread
then he speeds
his way
as he bites
a loaf of
bread in
his mouth
the little child
follows him
and there he
is closing the
door of his
house all
made of bread
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Day The Sun Stood Still
We were young and bound for glory
Itchin' for a fight like you
Bringin' hell and purgatory
To the boys who wore the blue
And I thought I'd seen it all
Till the day night wouldn't fall
Oh, how the sun did blaze
Wouldn't go down for days
I got shot and lost my rifle
When the first wave hit the rise
And the guns rolled out like thunder
And the black smoke burned my eyes
And I watched it all unfold
Just the way the Bible told
Joshua's endless day
Keepin' the night at bay
And the soldiers kept a comin'
Til the ground looked like a sea
Of blue and grey
And I watched it from a distance
Wonderin' if I would've fought or run away
The day the sun stood still
How they beat the bloody drums
And the seconds moved like hours
But the sunset never comes
And the cannons shake the ground
And the bullets test your will
Even shadows found no cover
On that Godforsaken hill
The day the sun stood still
And I watched them lean their shoulders
To the fearful hail of lead
And I prayed for night to save us
And I cried and bowed my head
Bt the sun just kept a-creepin'
'Cross a cold indifferent sky
Castin' a deadly glow
On all the men below
All the hours in a lifetime
Don't add up to one while minute in that sun
And the heroes and the cowards
Look the same when they have fallen by the gun
The day the sun stood still
And the north and south looked west
But the evening star was sleeping
And the daylight wouldn't rest
Out on the killing floor
The red sun on the the hill
Shinin' down on all the dead men
With a strange and eerie chill
The day the sun stood still
-a
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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