Tennessee Claflin Shope
I was the laughing-stock of the village,
Chiefly of the people of good sense, as they call themselves --
Also of the learned, like Rev. Peet, who read Greek
The same as English.
For instead of talking free trade,
Or preaching some form of baptism;
Instead of believing in the efficacy
Of walking cracks -- picking up pins the right way,
Seeing the new moon over the right shoulder,
Or curing rheumatism with blue glass,
I asserted the sovereignty of my own soul.
Before Mary Baker G. Eddy even got started
With what she called science
I had mastered the "Bhagavad Gita,"
And cured my soul, before Mary
Began to cure bodies with souls --
Peace to all worlds!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Gift Of The Sea
The dead child lay in the shroud,
And the widow watched beside;
And her mother slept, and the Channel swept
The gale in the teeth of the tide.
But the mother laughed at all.
"I have lost my man in the sea,
And the child is dead. Be still," she said,
"What more can ye do to me?"
The widow watched the dead,
And the candle guttered low,
And she tried to sing the Passing Song
That bids the poor soul go.
And "Mary take you now," she sang,
"That lay against my heart."
And "Mary smooth your crib to-night,"
But she could not say "Depart."
Then came a cry from the sea,
But the sea-rime blinded the glass,
And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said,
"'Tis the child that waits to pass."
And the nodding mother sighed.
"'Tis a lambing ewe in the whin,
For why should the christened soul cry out
That never knew of sin?"
"O feet I have held in my hand,
O hands at my heart to catch,
How should they know the road to go,
And how should they lift the latch?"
They laid a sheet to the door,
With the little quilt atop,
That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt,
But the crying would not stop.
The widow lifted the latch
And strained her eyes to see,
And opened the door on the bitter shore
To let the soul go free.
There was neither glimmer nor ghost,
There was neither spirit nor spark,
And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said,
"'Tis crying for me in the dark."
And the nodding mother sighed:
"'Tis sorrow makes ye dull;
Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern,
Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?"
"The terns are blown inland,
The gray gull follows the plough.
'Twas never a bird, the voice I heard,
O mother, I hear it now!"
"Lie still, dear lamb, lie still;
The child is passed from harm,
'Tis the ache in your breast that broke your rest,
And the feel of an empty arm."
She put her mother aside,
"In Mary's name let be!
For the peace of my soul I must go," she said,
And she went to the calling sea.
In the heel of the wind-bit pier,
Where the twisted weed was piled,
She came to the life she had missed by an hour,
For she came to a little child.
She laid it into her breast,
And back to her mother she came,
But it would not feed and it would not heed,
Though she gave it her own child's name.
And the dead child dripped on her breast,
And her own in the shroud lay stark;
And "God forgive us, mother," she said,
"We let it die in the dark!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The self-controlled soul, who moves amongst sense objects, free from either attachment or repulsion, he wins eternal Peace.
My Future
"Let's make him a sailor," said Father,
"And he will adventure the sea."
"A soldier," said Mother, "is rather
What I would prefer him to be."
"A lawyer," said Father, "would please me,
For then he could draw up my will."
"A doctor," said Mother, "would ease me;
Maybe he could give me a pill."
Said Father: "Lt's make him a curate,
A Bishop in gaiters to be."
Said Mother: "I couldn't endure it
To have Willie preaching to me."
Said Father: ""Let him be a poet;
So often he's gathering wool."
Said Mother with temper: "Oh stow it!
You know it, a poet's a fool."
Said Farther: "Your son is a duffer,
A stupid and mischievous elf."
Said Mother, who's rather a huffer:
"That's right - he takes after yourself."
Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.
Said I: "my ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I'd be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
With audience laughing at me."
. . . Poor parents! they're dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I'm playing,
How people are laughing at me!
poem by Robert William Service
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A Poetry Reading At West Point
I read to the entire plebe class,
in two batches. Twice the hall filled
with bodies dressed alike, each toting
a copy of my book. What would my
shrink say, if I had one, about
such a dream, if it were a dream?
Question and answer time.
"Sir," a cadet yelled from the balcony,
and gave his name and rank, and then,
closing his parentheses, yelled
"Sir" again. "Why do your poems give
me a headache when I try
to understand them?" he asked. "Do
you want that?" I have a gift for
gentle jokes to defuse tension,
but this was not the time to use it.
"I try to write as well as I can
what it feels like to be human,"
I started, picking my way care-
fully, for he and I were, after
all, pained by the same dumb longings.
"I try to say what I don't know
how to say, but of course I can't
get much of it down at all."
By now I was sweating bullets.
"I don't want my poems to be hard,
unless the truth is, if there is
a truth." Silence hung in the hall
like a heavy fabric. My own
head ached. "Sir," he yelled. "Thank you. Sir."
Anonymous submission.
poem by William Matthews
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Look You, I'll Go Pray
Look you, I'll go pray,
My shame is crying,
My soul is gray and faint,
My faith is dying.
Look you, I'll go pray —
"Sweet Mary, make me clean,
Thou rainstorm of the soul,
Thou wine from worlds unseen."
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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As We Teach We Learn
As we teach we learn, each day
And as we learn we see fresh ways,
To forward go, in boundless joy
Our "blueprint" lives to so enjoy.
The circles turn and spirals wend
Through journeys galore without an end.
So open up your soul and eye
To realise that we never die.
We roam Eternal through the sky
With sun and moon and stars, to cry
Their messages of love and peace
We see the light as we complete
Another Universal twirl,
Sometimes as "boy", and sometimes as "girl, "
though all that truly counts you see,
Is that "I" is always ever "Me"
poem by Rosi Caswell
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Ough''A Phonetic Fantasy
The baker-man was kneading dough
And whistling softly, sweet and lough.
Yet ever and anon he'd cough
As though his head were coming ough!
"My word!" said he," but this is rough:
This flour is simply awful stough!"
He punched and thumped it through and through,
As all good bakers dough!
" I'd sooner drive," said he " a plough
Than be a baker anyhough!"
Thus spake the baker kneading dough;
But don't let on I told you sough!
poem by William Thomas Goodge
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The time for thinkers has come.
Mary Baker Eddy in Science and Health
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Arcturus
"Arcturus" is his other name—
I'd rather call him "Star."
It's very mean of Science
To go and interfere!
I slew a worm the other day—
A "Savant" passing by
Murmured "Resurgam"—"Centipede"!
&q uot;Oh Lord—how frail are we"!
I pull a flower from the woods—
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath—
And has her in a "class"!
Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat—
He sits erect in "Cabinets"—
The Clover bells forgot.
What once was "Heaven"
Is "Zenith" now—
Where I proposed to go
When Time's brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I'm ready for "the worst"—
Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the "Kingdom of Heaven's" changed—
I hope the "Children" there Won't be "new fashioned" when I come—
And laugh at me—and stare—
I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl—
Old fashioned—naught—everything—
Over the stile of "Pearl."
poem by Emily Dickinson
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If Christianity is not scientific, and Science is not God, then there is no invariable law, and truth becomes an accident.
quote by Mary Baker Eddy
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Divine Love always has met and always will meet every human need.
Mary Baker Eddy in Science and Health
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Periwinkle Girl
I've often thought that headstrong youths
Of decent education,
Determine all-important truths,
With strange precipitation.
The ever-ready victims they,
Of logical illusions,
And in a self-assertive way
They jump at strange conclusions.
Now take my case: Ere sorrow could
My ample forehead wrinkle,
I had determined that I should
Not care to be a winkle.
"A winkle," I would oft advance
With readiness provoking,
"Can seldom flirt, and never dance,
Or soothe his mind by smoking."
In short, I spurned the shelly joy,
And spoke with strange decision -
Men pointed to me as a boy
Who held them in derision.
But I was young - too young, by far -
Or I had been more wary,
I knew not then that winkles are
The stock-in-trade of MARY.
I had not watched her sunlight blithe
As o'er their shells it dances -
I've seen those winkles almost writhe
Beneath her beaming glances.
Of slighting all the winkly brood
I surely had been chary,
If I had known they formed the food
And stock-in-trade of MARY.
Both high and low and great and small
Fell prostrate at her tootsies,
They all were noblemen, and all
Had balances at COUTTS'S.
Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,
DUKE BAILEY and DUKE HUMPHY,
Who ate her winkles till they felt
Exceedingly uncomfy.
DUKE BAILEY greatest wealth computes,
And sticks, they say, at no-thing,
He wears a pair of golden boots
And silver underclothing.
DUKE HUMPHY, as I understand,
Though mentally acuter,
His boots are only silver, and
His underclothing pewter.
A third adorer had the girl,
A man of lowly station -
A miserable grov'ling Earl
Besought her approbation.
This humble cad she did refuse
With much contempt and loathing,
He wore a pair of leather shoes
And cambric underclothing!
"Ha! ha!" she cried. "Upon my word!
Well, really - come, I never!
Oh, go along, it's too absurd!
My goodness! Did you ever?
"Two Dukes would Mary make a bride,
And from her foes defend her" -
"Well, not exactly that," they cried,
"We offer guilty splendour.
"We do not offer marriage rite,
So please dismiss the notion!"
"Oh dear," said she, "that alters quite
The state of my emotion."
The Earl he up and says, says he,
"Dismiss them to their orgies,
For I am game to marry thee
Quite reg'lar at St. George's."
(He'd had, it happily befell,
A decent education,
His views would have befitted well
A far superior station.)
His sterling worth had worked a cure,
She never heard him grumble;
She saw his soul was good and pure,
Although his rank was humble.
Her views of earldoms and their lot,
All underwent expansion -
Come, Virtue in an earldom's cot!
Go, Vice in ducal mansion!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Night-Scented Stock
White, white in the milky night
The moon danced over a tree.
"Wouldn't it be lovely to swim in the lake!"
Someone whispered to me.
"Oh, do-do-do!" cooed someone else,
And clasped her hands to her chin.
"I should so love to see the white bodies--
All the white bodies jump in!"
The big dark house hid secretly
Behind the magnolia and the spreading pear-tree;
But there was a sound of music--music rippled and ran
Like a lady laughing behind her fan,
Laughing and mocking and running away...
"Come into the garden--it's as light as day!"
"I can't dance to that Hungarian stuff,
The rhythm in it is not passionate enough,"
Said somebody. "I absolutely refuse...."
But he took off his socks and his shoes
And round he spun. "It's like Hungarian fruit dishes
Hard and bright--a mechanical blue!"
His white feet flicked in the grass like fishes...
Someone cried: "I want to dance, too!"
But one with a queer Russian ballet head
Curled up on a blue wooden bench instead.
And another, shadowy--shadowy and tall--
Walked in the shadow of the dark house wall,
Someone beside her. It shone in the gloom,
His round grey hat, like a wet mushroom.
"Don't you think perhaps..." piped someone's flute.
"How sweet the flowers smell!" I heard the other say.
Somebody picked a wet, wet pink,
Smelled it and threw it away.
"Is the moon a virgin or is she a harlot?"
Asked somebody. Nobody would tell.
The faces and the hands moved in a pattern
As the music rose and fell,
In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern
Like flowers nodding under the sea...
The music stopped and there was nothing left of them
But the moon dancing over the tree.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Divine Love always has met and always will meet every human need.
Mary Baker Eddy in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once In A Lifetime
"I know I'm a down and out, wet and freezing cold,
but what do you want from one who feels so old.
Go away, leave me alone, so I can get some sleep
and maybe with luck God will my soul keep.
What do you want? I've got nothing at all for you,
even my aching body is aged and worthless too.
Maybe you're a Samaritan here to do me a good turn?
Oh go away, I'm too old to change or learn."
"What would you say if I could make you well again,
give you a younger body free from pain? "
"Do you think I'm mad or are you completely insane,
who do you think you are to make such a claim? "
"I am not an empty vessel; I only say what I can do,
and I will help you, but you have to help me too.
Ah, I see you're thinking… well, what do you say old man?
No one else can offer this, there's only me that can?
If you turn me down you'll be dead in a very short time;
what've you to lose, why should you decline? "
"And I suppose all you want is my God given soul,
my only possession that's undamaged and whole.
Throughout my entire life, it's been of no use to me,
and yet you want it, in exchange for my misery."
"How did you happen to know it was your soul I desired,
do you believe the stories that I'm by evil inspired?
You people have been grossly misinformed about me,
if I was really evil would I set your pain free,
give you a new life, guaranteed for three more years,
why, such a deal would reduce any man to tears.
Come on old man, before it's too late, what do you say,
are we going to make a deal before you slip away?
Your soul is worthless to you when you're dead and gone,
this is your last chance to live a new life from now on."
"If we can agree to five years instead of three for my soul,
what will happen to me when I've paid my toll?
Will my soul burn forever in that place they call hell,
be tormented and tortured, like I've heard tell? "
You don't want to listen to malicious fairy tales and lies,
which are used to frighten children and the unwise.
As a collector of souls I've been stigmatised by what I do
by the so called honest and religious amongst you.
The truth is hell doesn't really exist, so no one goes there,
and all the other stuff is just a religious scare.
So, with the souls I gather I simply unite them together
so that as soul mates they can remain forever.
"Is it true that we have to have a contract signed in blood,
with everything agreed and understood? "
"This too is superstitious nonsense and it gets under my skin,
but if that's what you want, it's a good way to begin.
"In this modern age a teardropp to seal the contract will do,
and from this day all I promised will be granted to you.
And in four years from now your soul will become mine,
so make the most of your life, and have a good time."
The following four years passed by as though one day
and the payment of a soul is due without delay.
"Hello my friend, you look exceptionally well and healthy,
your four years has not been a waste of time I see."
"I've had an excellent time and I want to thank you a lot,
but is it possible to postpone the contract we've got? "
"How dare you have the audacity to take me as a fool,
do you honestly think I'll break a fundamental rule?
Now listen old man, a deal is a deal and that's a fact,
and its all been signed for in our contract.
Now give me a sealing teardropp from your eye,
and then we can say our last goodbye."
"I'm sorry, it's not medically possible I have dry eyes,
and operations have in vain been tried."
"This is no use to me! I've said it before, a deal is a deal
you'll have to sign it off using blood as the seal! "
"I won't sign in blood, things are different in my life,
I have responsibilities, including a new wife."
"But all these things were made possible because of me,
you owe me your soul and that's how it will be!
Okay, okay… I accept that I cannot have it this day,
but the moment you die you will definitely pay,
and don't go away thinking that you have outwitted me,
your soul will soon be mine, you are not accident free."
poem by Orlando Belo
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Anna Comnena
In the prologue to her Alexiad,
Anna Comnena laments her widowhood.
Her soul is dizzy. "And with rivers
of tears," she tells us "I wet
my eyes... Alas for the waves" in her life,
"alas for the revolts." Pain burns her
"to the the bones and the marrow and the cleaving of the soul."
But it seems the truth is, that this ambitious woman
knew only one great sorrow;
she only had one deep longing
(though she does not admit it) this haughty Greek woman,
that she was never able, despite all her dexterity,
to acquire the Kingship; but it was taken
almost out of her hands by the insolent John.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Love inspires, illuminates, designates and leads the way.
Mary Baker Eddy in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mary, the Maid o' the Tay
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Tay,
Whaur me and my Mary oft did stray;
But noo she is dead and gone far away,
Sae I maun mourn for lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay,
The first time I met her 'twas in the month of May,
And the sun was shining bricht on the Silvery Tay;
I asked her name and she modestly did say,
"Some fouks ca's me lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay."
Oh, charming Mary o' the Tay,
Queen o' my soul by nicht and day;
But noo thou'rt gane and left me here
To weep for you, sweet Mary dear.
Oh, bonnie Mary o' the Tay,
Joy o' my heart and Queen o' May;
With thee I aye felt happy and gay
While rambling with thee on the banks o' the Tay.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Tay,
With my Mary ye seemed ever gay;
But noo ye seem baith dark and drear,
For my puir heart ye canna cheer.
My Mary was handsome and fair to be seen,
She bad bonnie fair hair and twa blue een;
And she was, aye happy while we carelessly did stray
Alang the banks o' the Silvery Tay.
Oh, Mary dear, I mourn thy loss,
To me the world seems nought but dross;
Sae I maun mourn baith nicht and day
For my lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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If the foolish, call them "flowers"
168
If the foolish, call them "flowers"—
Need the wiser, tell?
If the Savants "Classify" them
It is just as well!
Those who read the "Revelations"
Must not criticize
Those who read the same Edition—
With beclouded Eyes!
Could we stand with that Old "Moses"—
"Canaan" denied—
Scan like him, the stately landscape
On the other side—
Doubtless, we should deem superfluous
Many Sciences,
Not pursued by learned Angels
In scholastic skies!
Low amid that glad Belles lettres
Grant that we may stand,
Stars, amid profound Galaxies—
At that grand "Right hand"!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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A hall of mirrors...
She said—she'd love me forever.
And that she always would.
That our two hearts—thoughts
"Could bond; the stars for good".
It wasn't harmony: From
The outset—that is true!
For her my sweetheart, I'
"Watch's as infants, do".
Out of the sash-window
Or that—skylight in the soul,
In reflections, light...
"Entwined—we're made whole".
Halves of the locket...
Combined, clasped.
Is what we now—became!
"In each other's grasp".
But soon these mirrors
Broke like shards of glass...
A hall of mirrors...?
"With no-truths—Alas"...
The lights ebbing darkness...
Shone on, all their paths.
But; know all hearts—break!
"Drown in hollow—baths".
poem by Mark Heathcote
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