Harmon Whitney
Out of the lights and roar of cities,
Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River,
Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken,
The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt,
But to hide a wounded pride as well.
To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds --
I, gifted with tongues and wisdom,
Sunk here to the dust of the justice court,
A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs, --
I, whom fortune smiled on! I in a village,
Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse,
Out of the lore of golden years,
Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit
When they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind.
To be judged by you,
The soul of me hidden from you,
With its wound gangrened
By love for a wife who made the wound,
With her cold white bosom, treasonous, pure and hard,
Relentless to the last, when the touch of her hand,
At any time, might have cured me of the typhus,
Caught in the jungle of life where many are lost.
And only to think that my soul could not react,
Like Byron's did, in song, in something noble,
But turned on itself like a tortured snake --
Judge me this way, O world!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Question
AND so in the death-darkened chamber they met,
The woman that once he had loved and the one he loved yet—
The wife who had warped his desire and the woman he could not forget.
They stood by the bier where between them he slept,
And the love he had lost in his wife to her swimming eyes leapt;
But the woman his life had belonged to—his paramour—spoke not nor wept.
It was only a story of sated desire—
Of a love merely sensual burnt to an ash by its fire,
And a husband who turned to a more luscious love that was his for the hire.
All had sinned. For the husband had killed by his clutch,
Rough-handed, the fruit of a love that had dropped at his touch.
One woman's great sin was not loving, his wife's was in loving too much.
And so he had died; it was over at last;
And across him the two women looked at each other aghast—
Across his cold corse, and across the cold corse of the loathsome dead Past!
Then the smouldering love of the wife leapt to flame,
And she poured forth her kisses upon him, and called on his name.
But the other said “No, he is nothing to you; soul and body I claim!”
They looked at each other awhile. Said the wife wearily,
“He is mine; for I loved him, and ever shall love him; let be!”
But the other sneered, “No, he is mine, and mine only, because he loved me!”
Then the two laid their hands on the body between;
And fought for it, wife against paramour, fiercely, unseen—
For the body diseased and polluted, as ever his spirit had been.
And this is a question for answer in Hell:
To which of the two did his spirit belong, can you tell?
Think, was it the woman he loved, or the one who had loved him too well?
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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Paris and the Golden Apple
The best of possessions
I am holding in my hand-
The Golden Apple on which is written-
'For the most fairest'.
Strange is the way Fate works,
And I, a mortal, is chosen to select
Who among Hera, Athene and Venus
is the most fairest!
Hera said-
'Power is the ultimate goal of life,
every head must bow down before power-
with love or with fear-
The world stands before you trembling,
And you will govern it with iron rod.
Give me the apple and see
what I have to offer.'
Athene Said -
Knowledge is Power, and
Power is but the shadow of Wisdom-
always following like a faithful servent;
I will bless you with the light of wisdom
And elighten your soul from within
So that you can judge the past, present and future.
Venus smiled and said -
What drink can quench the thirst of the soul?
And can remove the hundred fevers of heart?
Can Wisdom or Power do this?
no, they don't.
Only Beauty can touch the soul softly
and can revive its vitality.
Then give me the apple and in return
Take the best of gifts the world can offer-
The most beautiful woman as your wife.
What a real dellima I am in!
Which on to chose, which one to avoid-
between Power, Wisdom and Beauty?
Power is a weapon,
But, Wisdom is the mind's eye,
Yet Beauty is the only pleasure
of the eye and soul.
So, Beauty I prefer to Power and Wisdom;
I will offer the apple to Venus
and will have the most beautiful woman as my wife.
Did Paris make a mistake
In chosing Beauty over Power and Wisdom?
Well, History holds proof of this-
Look at the burning Troy
and take lesson therefrom;
Let not one more Troy burn,
Let not one more Paris is born.
poem by Nazmul Haque
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Ironic Life
How Ironic life is...
I smile- but the madness of a dying soul was written on my face.
I laugh- but serene sadness was painted on my eyes.
I talk and talk but hide the secrets
till i found myself in my own silence.
Silence is pure, but silence poisons the soul.
See me now broken as you made me whole before.
How ironic love is...
I drank the cup of Love
though i know it is poisonous.
Now i lost the man i loved the most.
And our story is lost in silence,
lost with the wind.
I cant remember how happy i had been.
How ironic love is...
he who survives me, snared my soul;
with a snare which bled me to death.
There is something about death like love itself.
Now i see myself as a lifeless soul;
like a broken-winged eagle facing his fall.
How ironic life is...
it started as fire,
till the fire is nothing but a light.
It takes life to understand this ironic life!
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Broken Vase
The vase where this verbena is dying
was cracked by a blow from a fan.
It must have barely brushed it,
for it made no sound.
But the slight wound,
biting into the crystal day by day,
surely, invisibly crept
slowly all around it.
The clear water leaked out drop by drop.
The flowers' sap was exhausted.
Still no one suspected anything.
Don't touch! It's broken.
Thus often does the hand we love,
barely touching the heart, wound it.
Then the heart cracks by itself
and the flower of its love dies.
Still intact in the eyes of the world,
it feels its wound, narrow and deep,
grow and softly cry.
It's broken. Don't touch!
poem by Rene Francois Armand Prudhomme
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Judged
Will they judge me by the color of my skin
Instead by my soul and whats deep within
When I am greeted by either women or men
Will they even ask where I have been.
Will I be judged because I am a man
With my heart and feelings will they understand
Will I be greeted with an outreached hand
Will they hold it against me when I make a stand.
Will I be judged because I am old
And not wanting to do the things that I am told
Will they remember the good deeds that I sowed
As onto truth and honesty I will always hold.
Will I be judged because of the way I was
Once I found happiness and also love
But then I found out it was hate and also lust
So please tell me, how will I be judge.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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I Am a Peasant
I was a peasant like the world of old nature,
Wood and bone made me a beggar for life.
The real value of a village produced animal
Feelings in my head and soul, the very drink of blood.
I was a peasant from a neighbouring village
That constructed the time of bouts and bites,
The begging became as useful as pride,
Asking me to be kinder to the world of new nature.
Carefully I resented pleasant news but good names
Were my fellows, their owners were strange, they were all
Old in the world, old on the planet I adore so well.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Bright Lights
Times running out just as fast as it can
Shes leaving me cold
I dont understand
Hearts beating hard on the edge of the floor
Gotta kill this pain cause I cant take no more
Bright lights on a cold night
If it feels good then its alright
Thinking about when we first met
All these memories kill me
Get them out of my head
The flashing lights of the cities roar
Make my mind a blurr
Whos knocking on the door
Nothings for keeps
Cant get no sleep
My future is late
Guess Ill find it next week
Bright lights on a cold night
If it feels good then its alright
Shes caught up in the spotlight
See her up there in a new york fashion show
See the freedom in her eyes
Couldve chose a better time
For it all to go wrong
Another night and my life is my own
But it scares me half to death
Out in the bars in the village with friends
You can buy me a drink
But please dont mention her name
Bright lights on a cold night
Shes up there in the spotlight
Now its over and its goodnight
Bright lights (x 3)
See her up there in a new york fashion show
See the freedom in her eyes
Couldve chose a better time
For it all to go wrong
Bright lights on a cold night
If it feels good then its alright
Bright lights (x 2)
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Impromptu
Keep away from sharp swords
Don't go near a lovely woman.
A sharp sword too close will wound your hand;
Woman's beauty too close will wound your life!
The danger of the road is not in the distance;
Ten yards is far enough to break a wheel.
The peril of love is not in loving too often;
A single evening can leave its wound in the soul.
poem by Meng Chiao
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Penniwit, the Artist
I lost my patronage in Spoon River
From trying to put my mind in the camera
To catch the soul of the person.
The very best picture I ever took
Was of Judge Somers, attorney at law.
He sat upright and had me pause
Till he got his cross-eye straight.
Then when he was ready he said “all right.”
And I yelled “overruled” and his eye turned up.
And I caught him just as he used to look
When saying “I except.”
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Upon A Realization For Having Been So Dumb For All Those Years
time pierces what thick wooden
illusions lie there
it is like a metallic drill that goes
right to the nincompoop heart
there is a hole
a tiny one, where blood begins to drip
like tears
the pain is unbearable
but it will only be for the first time
drifting upon your
innocence
soon the lessons are learned
the eyes open
like the sun on a bright morning
where lights act like pins piercing
upon a numbing skin
one evening
when the rain is gone
when the world is as silent as the feet of the cat
you mind makes
a conclusion: how dumb was i?
how unreasonable have i become all those years
when i entertained a wound?
how unjust was i to myself
and to the rest of my kin?
how chronic were my lies
cancer of my heart
on love that takes pride and romance
on being
unrequited?
night gifted you with the wisdom of its horrible silence
those insomniac hours
have become your true friends
the following morning
a white bird lands upon your shoulder
tamed and knowing
what to do
back to work,
sanity regained
what a shame!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Amos Sibley
Not character, not fortitude, not patience
Were mine, the which the village thought I had
In bearing with my wife, while preaching on,
Doing the work God chose for me.
I loathed her as a termagant, as a wanton.
I knew of her adulteries, every one.
But even so, if I divorced the woman
I must forsake the ministry.
Therefore to do God's work and have it crop,
I bore with her!
So lied I to myself!
So lied I to Spoon River!
Yet I tried lecturing, ran for the legislature,
Canvassed for books, with just the thought in mind:
If I make money thus, I will divorce her.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Ellipse #78(…candy bar)
Saw a kid in a gas mask today
Five years old- maybe four
Stole a Hershey bar from the remains
of a burnt down store.
Riot gear and hopscotch
Slingshots and hand grenades.
Well, that kid- with that precious chocolate in hand
He found a soldier, lying on the ground
And there, he kneeled down
The soldier had a gut shot wound
And bits of shrapnel in his small intestine
In his hand,
a photograph of his wife he rubbed
with a bloody thumb.
From the waist down, he began to grow numb
And that kid in that gas mask
He looked down with a bit of pity
On the soldier with the seeping wound
and soon to be widowed wife.
He took PITY on that soldier's
poor, unfortunate life.
He took that candy bar from his back pocket,
And he GAVE that dying soldier his chocolate.
That soldier- he had a tear in his eye..
For that one gracious deed before he would die.
He looked up in the gas mask glass,
and saw his reflection!
He smiled wide,
and with sincere, yet trembling inflection
said, ‘Thanks kid.'
And that kid, he saw that smile-
and he pondered on it for awhile.
'That's ok. I'm going to steal a TV now instead'
-]0[
poem by Joe Guillotin
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Bending Water
Our skin touches together
The kiss seems to better
While the sea sings his sad song
We stayed here all alone
With the eyes closed tight
Came a smell of a beautiful sight
Wind blows away that soft kiss
The touch of hand we will miss
Here comes the sad wound
A wound that hurts at night
And a soul so cold filled with pain
Where is it that we become sane
After the forgotten song
She waited her love too long
He leaves her alone awaiting
It's the sad sea she is facing
Soon it will sing again
A melody that steals her pain
The sun cries to the sky
We will never say goodbye
poem by Tom Buthkil
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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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River In Time
Now fly with the wind
The spirits running free
The mountains have turned to dust
And the desert is a ragging sea
Im a prisoner no more
If I just believe my eyes
(its hard to believe it)
(youve just got to believe it)
Now Ive opened this door
And my future waits inside
(I know its hard to believe)
Looking at eternity
Love is a river in time
Now and forever
A bridge between lifetimes
Here there are no good-byes
And your dreams never die
Love is a river in time
A million years from now
Will war be obsolete?
Will man live on the moon?
Will flowers smell as sweet?
Take this magic carpet ride
Going to the promise land
(I know its hard to believe it)
(youve just got to believe it)
We shall need the human touch
Every woman, child and man
(everybody believe it)
(reach across and take my hand)
Love is a river in time
(love is a river in time)
Now and forever
A bridge between lifetimes
Here there is no future no past
Love is all we have
Love is a river in time
A river in time
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Elegy
Too proud to die; broken and blind he died
The darkest way, and did not turn away,
A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride
On that darkest day, Oh, forever may
He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow
Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost
Or still all the numberless days of his death, though
Above all he longed for his mother's breast
Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,
I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
In the muted house, one minute before
Noon, and night, and light. the rivers of the dead
Veined his poor hand I held, and I saw
Through his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.
(An old tormented man three-quarters blind,
I am not too proud to cry that He and he
Will never never go out of my mind.
All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,
Being innocent, he dreaded that he died
Hating his God, but what he was was plain:
An old kind man brave in his burning pride.
The sticks of the house were his; his books he owned.
Even as a baby he had never cried;
Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.
Out of his eyes I saw the last light glide.
Here among the liught of the lording sky
An old man is with me where I go
Walking in the meadows of his son's eye
On whom a world of ills came down like snow.
He cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres'
Last sound, the world going out without a breath:
Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,
And caught between two nights, blindness and death.
O deepest wound of all that he should die
On that darkest day. oh, he could hide
The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.
Until I die he will not leave my side.)
poem by Dylan Thomas
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The Cause of Enmity between Snake and Man
Snake, the first owner of fire.
Dog, the robber of fire.
Man the last owner of fire.
The snake gave birth first to fire.
Thus fire, the first born of snake.
Thus snake, only owner of fire long ago.
One cold evening
The man dying of coldness
The dog seen it master dying of coldness
It went to snake house and begged
The snake, the mother of fire to let
It tail get warm of fire
The snake cordially welcomed the dog
The dog twisted it tail on fire
The tail caught the fire
The dog jumped over the snake in door
Ran quickly to it master, the man
The man took the grass and wood
And lit up the fire
The fire lit up in man’s house
And it extinguished in snake’s house
The snake come to get fire back
But the man attack the snake
The hostility between man and snake
Began then
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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Flesh Wound
We flew over miles of ocean--be prepared.
I don't have the faintest notion who'll be there.
You underestimated; nobody sympathized.
I think you'll soon feel better once we get inside.
I see the door is open -- Why don't we walk right in?
Let's put our party hats on and let the fun begin!
We should have called and said that we were on our way;
Who would have ever guessed that you'd be so unreachable?
Just another flesh wound--another thorn in my side
Just another flesh wound--another wonder-cure that you tried
Just another flesh wound--another scratch on your hide
Just another flesh wound--another irritation you abide
You know the rumour's going that he was synthesized.
And if we had to dress, I wouldn't be surprised.
I say -- you're so outrageous -- you'll go to number one!
They'll have us both arrested for having too much fun.
Just another flesh wound--another scratch on your hide.
Just another flesh wound--another thorn in your side.
Just another flesh wound--another bruise on your pride.
Just another flesh wound--another paranoia that you hide.
And when she held her nose, she took an underdose.
It was nice to see her completely comatose.
You go first, you're completely debonair;
Let's go dutch -- it's only fair.
Just another flesh wound--another thorn in your side.
Just another flesh wound--a minor injury you dignified.
Just another flesh wound--another unsuccessful suicide.
Just another flesh wound--another curse that you ride.
song performed by by Robert Palmer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song of the Chobe River
You were a song in my life, a short time in the singing
You taught me the chords of your being, you found me listening to the words
Together we made rhythms, and our beat was nearing harmony
Until the sheet music was torn, and papers turned in the wind
That took them back to fire and ash.
Your song is a slow echo in my being. It may be early morning
In the dawn of waking, or twilight in a sudden second, when again
I hear it. I need to place and sustain it
But cannot figure out the key, or construct the right arrangement.
I guess the planet vibrations carry it back to you,
Waiting in your house and life, listening to the village songs,
Town telegraph – as you always did.
I praise the song you gave me, and drink the tears you left me
Fallen on a round stone table, high beside this river
Which is a vein of Africa, an artery of your life,
Where languages and tributaries meet.
I will make a new song for you, because your love has asked me -
It is broken and uneven, it will seek our faded harmony
To be faithful to the river, to be sung.
poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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