The Table And The Chair
Said the Table to the Chair,
'You can hardly be aware
How I suffer from the heat,
And from chilblains on my feet!
If we took a little walk,
We might have a little talk!
Pray let us take the air!'
Said the Table to the Chair.
Said the Chair unto the Table,
'Now you know we are not able!
How foolishly you talk,
When you know we cannot walk!'
Said the Table with a sigh,
'It can do no harm to try;
I've as many legs as you;
Why can't we walk on two?'
So they both went slowly down,
And walked about the town
With a cheerful bumpy sound,
As they toddled round and round.
And everybody cried,
As they hastened to their side,
'See! the Table and the Chair
Have come out to take the air!'
But, in going down an alley
To a castle in the valley,
They completely lost their way,
And wandered all the day
Till, to see them safely back,
They paid a Ducky-quack,
And a Beetle, and a Mouse,
Who took them to their house.
Then they whispered to each other,
'O delightful little brother!
What a lovely walk we've taken!
Let us dine on Beans and Bacon!'
So the Ducky and the leetle
Browny-Mousy and the Beetle
Dined, and danced upon their heads
Till they toddled to their beds.
poem by Edward Lear
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Related quotes
A Round Table
we have this round table
and we put all our hands
on it when we eat and
drink and just talk for
hours and hours and
listen. And we ask what
is happening: Karding
broke a leg and Delia
is looking for the money.
Always it is the money.
Always she is short of
the money. And there
were jewelries hanging
on her neck and arms
and fingers, and we all
ask at this round table:
what is happening?
Nothing, don't mind at
all, this is just a part of
the round table, some
wine glass that broke
and must be swept at
once. We keep away the
sound of a crying pig.
We eat pigs here at this
round table. Then we shifted
the talk about our dead
parents. We pray. We
remember we keep on
saying this. We finish eating
the pig. We drink a very
cold water. Our throats
are irritated and we step
out of the room wanting
to pull away our tongues.
when we come back the
round table is empty.
and we laugh about a
joke that we remember.
our childhood games
the river, and the boat
that father made for us.
we turn off the tv and we
begin to talk about the
beautiful flowers in mother's
old garden, the secret one.
we agree. we miss it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Chair Don't make the Man
People see me in this chair and whisper look at that poor man over there. They believe my life is wasted all because I’m in this chair. Well I got some to say that I want you all to hear. Just like clothes don’t really make a man neither does a chair. The chair is just what I use to get me for here to there. Just like people who walk use their legs to get them everywhere. Because besides the chair I’m just like you; I laugh, I cry and yes I have sex too. Now that you all know the next time you see me don’t whisper look at that poor man over there. In fact don’t say anything just remember the chair don’t make the man.
When We Shall Meet Again
i have storms within my head
some thoughts are flown away and i am left with this usual emptiness
that scares me no more
must i tell you about it? i won't
i know that you too have tornadoes inside your guts
and i may prolong it with my own agonies
to each his own, to suffer and then to be redeemed again
by the strength of our silence
when the calm day comes when we all walk with dignities intact
perhaps we shall meet each other with a smile
we sit upon a chair beside a round table facing the far horizon
and we tell ourselves, 'oh we have traveled this far
and we know we are still doing well'
and then we sip our hot coffees and partake with our cookies
over a very cold evening.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Table
This table is reserved an invitation for two,
only one sits alone and the other chair is bare.
He waits and waits as the hours creep through.
Stares at the empty space and wonders where are you.
He looks at his watch as another hour ticks by,
looks at the door to see who is coming through.
He feels eyes staring, probably wondering whom
he is waiting for as the minutes turn to hours.
The empty chair remains bare
as outside the sun sets as night begins to call.
This table is reserved for two, but where are you?
He thinks of all the reasons why you could be late
for this most important date.
He has rehearsed his lines of what he purposed to say.
The box with the ring within his pocket stays.
Where are you he wonders, do you love him anymore?
The negative thoughts invaded his mind
as he waits looking at the door, just waiting for you.
Finally the waiter comes along and tells him they are about to close.
He gives one last look at the door, then gets up and goes.
The reserved table for two stands empty and bare.
Those who should have sat there are gone never to return,
and as the light go out the table stands alone and forlorn.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Hope
they put the man
in front of the water
on a wheel chair
he could not walk
six men
with his invalid chair
may be they were next of kin
may be close friends
may be blood-friends
nearly six men
carried the man
that was not able to walk
in front of the water
in the middle of the greenery
thanks GOD
I can walk
in the pool
there wre ducks..pigeons
and under the small bridge
white rabbits
moon was budding
in spite of the shining sun
under the clouds secretly
ı t was almost evening
the last days of summer
hot and very hot
the moon was budding
hidden under the clouds
I asked everybody
to ask a wish
, ı do not know if theybut ı know you asked
from your eyes
sun was setting crimson
when serenity of the evening approached
the ducks dived into the water
I wanted to dive with them
in this cool water
the weather was hot...very hot
the man wore the greenery
in front of the water
the man who could not walk
but he was still filled with hope
smiling
even he cannot walk
he could see the others
who can walk
he wore the greenery
in front of the water
he was still smiling with hope
may be someday
he hoped he could walk
on our table
the flowers were blooming and greening
I as if being guilty
was looking at your blue..green eyes
hopeless
the distance between us
was elongating as the days passed
and our hopes
were looking for new mornings
as the setting sun
to rise up again
even the man who cannot walk
was hopeful than us
poem by Metin Sahin
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How Long Is Short Time
How long or short is Time?
Got up early sat on a chair not reading or watching TV,
time has been running too fast lately into the sand
of a desert that doesn’t bloom; must slow time down
to a trickle. After breakfast I went for a walk and took
no interest in what I saw, back in my chair looking at
the clock, yes the forenoon was endless and I was
hungry, and finally lunch. In the afternoon I went for
another walk, didn’t buy a paper I only get engrossed
in what I read and time flies. Back home I sat in my chair
watched a dipteral circle around, fell asleep and when
I awoke it was seven in the evening, time I had saved
that day had been wasted by me snoozing in a chair.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Chair
We sat at the table talking
when we noticed from the corner of our eyes
the door seemed to open and close again.
No one took much notice of it;
each thinking it was a draft that had caught it.
Then we watched amazed
as the chair at the far end of the room
began to move on its own.
Each time it caught our attention the chair stopped.
Turning back to our conversation
from the corner of our eyes,
we watched the chair move again.
Each time it inched closer
towards the table where we sat.
Our guests and we were hypnotised
by the spectacular of the moving chair.
We had lived here for many years
and nothing like this had ever happened before.
We all watched intently the chair
with not a word being spoken.
Whatever was moving it
could clearly not be seen.
Someone smiled and said,
“That is a neat trick you must tell us all
just how you’ve done it.”
I shook my head and replied,
“It is not us doing this.”
Faces paled at the thought
of the chair moving on its own.
The chair then stopped
and the outline of a figure appeared,
its eyes were flaming red
and it stared intently at us all.
“Who are you? ” Someone asked.
“Who do you wish I be? ” The reply came
from a voice that seemed to surround us.
You could see the fear begin to inherit everyone’s eyes
as the eyes of whatever looked around at everyone.
A crackling laughter then arose.
“Who are you? ” I asked,
“You are frightening everyone.
I tell you now you were not invited;
your presence is not welcome here.
Be gone I say, be gone and leave us in peace.”
The flaming eyes stared at me
as if to devour my soul.
Outside a lightning bolt struck,
its explosion made us jump.
When we looked back,
the chair was where it should be
and the flaming red eyes were gone.
Was this an hallucination
or did we really see a ghost.
Whatever, when we returned to talking,
we abandoned the conversation
of strange phenomena we were discussing
before our encounter.
15 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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Dummy Song
Louis Armstrong--Dummy Song
I'll take the legs from some old table
I'll take the arms from some old chair
I'll take the neck from some old bottle
And from a horse I'll take the hair
I'll take the hands and face from some old clock
And baby when I'm through
I'll get more loving from the dum-dum-dummy
Than I ever got from you
Get me some legs get me a chair
And a bottle, too
Give a horse give me some time
And baby when I'm through
I'll take the legs from some old table
I'll take the arms from some old chair
I'll take the neck from some old bottle
And from a horse I'll take the hair
I'll take the hands and face from some old clock
And baby when I'm through
I'll get more loving from the dum-dum-dummy
Than I ever got from you
I get more loving from the dum-dum-dummy
Than I ever got from you
Yeah Mama get more loving
From a dummy than I get from you
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cogitation
if this chair does not exist
will i, this, chair, me, who asks,
if this chair, exists at all,
can i, exist, too? will i be dependent
on the thought of a chair
a thought of me that i think i
can touch, that i think thoughts
touching this thought of a chair
does the chair think about me,
i ask, looking for that therefore
beside the chair that i thought
is a chair, that i thought is I,
am, therefore, a chair, thinking
chair, on four feet?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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S4
now i am hearing the rushing steps
of the fish vendor
towards the market
passing by the road fronting
my blinds
a busy day,
the red ant below my feet is at it again
finding some crumbs
of cookies
under the computer table
beside the swivel chair
i always have a word
despite,
the ant wonders
why are you doing this?
the nails have no feelings
and so are the feet of the chairs
the monitor is a eunuch
the room fills itself with so much mess
rambling books
scattered papers still unread
piling folders and
dusty nooks
the light brown curtains need
badly a laundrywoman
the walls are calling for a painter
and the floors yell for a scrubbing and mopping
this is the earth of being
needing an updat a cleansing of some sort
a deluge perhaps
and what must remain must only be the essentials
a pen a piece of paper
discard the table and the chair
for man can squat
and still relate to what is bare and empty.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Ode for David
Inspiration
From a lopsided table?
Words written down
Told as a fable
Strange request you have
My dear friend
Inspiration I will find
This I do intend
Wooden Table
Possess my tongue
Wintered table
Cry from my lungs
Pen striking paper
You shall be my muse
May the bleeding ink
Cry of your blues
Splintered skin
In a corner rest forgotten
Winding legs
You stand wild as cotton
Pen stroke slide
Across your lofty floor
Three legs you stand
When you should have four
Awkward table
You have no friend
Ancient table
You've reached your bitterend
Should my pen learn sea legs
I'd love you once more
But, on three legs you stand
When you should have four
poem by Kay Gardner
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A Modest Table
A Modest Table
The table is like a flag wrapped little coffin
only it is not a flag of hubris and nationality,
but a cloth with roses, sewed by a woman
with time at hand and love in her heart.
The table is rough hewn but solid it will not
suffer illnesses of old age, but perhaps get
wood-worms.
It will last longer than I will, till new owners
will throw it on the dump or break it up and
use it as firewood a cold winter night.
In the meantime, as we wait, I rest my feet on
it when watching TV.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Table For Two!
Flash of dream overcome me
as I took slumber one night
I saw a romantic setting
lies a set of table for two
A bouquet of red roses
decorate at the center
where a bottle of red wine
completes the table for two
I saw you entered the haven
dressed in rainbow colored suit
your face so pretty with a smile
as we kissed at the table for two
Mesmerized by your countenance
I was filled with romantic stance
as we danced to the tune of love
such so divine at the table for two
Awaken at height of joy
I am filled with inspiration
as today it becomes a reality
a table for two on Valentines day
poem by Marvin Brato Sr
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Outsider
i had it once
walking with a friend
meeting his lover
along this crowded
alley to the mall
then, they look
at each other
with dreamy eyes
hold hands,
sit together on
a chair on a round
table and they
speak their own language
and speak some more
on anything
sweet nothings
i become
non-existent
i have become
to them the perfect
outsider
love the circle
that takes them
exclusively in
where everybody
are outsiders
mindlessly
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Imagine
i imagine
you
thinking woman
your elbow
calloused
on the table
by so much
thinking
your legs
scarred
your bottoms
bothered
by innumerable
ideas
coming out
from your
head
like the
colored
sparks
of the fourth
of July
i imagine
you sitting
on your study
a heated
chair
a burning
table
a room
crowded
with a lot
of warring
ideas
a bed
not enticing
you to sleep
i imagine
you thinking
woman
scribbling
your poems
burning
a dozen
candles
i imagine
your fury
your disappointments
your disgrace
your fall
from their
grasp
the bump
of your head
on their
shallow waters
thinking woman
be pleased
in truth
i have not
offended you
all my hairs
have decided
to fall
on the floor
and my eyes
have lost
the need
for eyelids
and be happy
we still talk
in the lines
of this
unstoppable
poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Chair Is No Longer Just A Chair
it is your experience that
gives you more meaning to all those which
you think
have been too common and
insignificant,
perhaps
now you must have realized as you sit upon a chair
that someone used to sit there
and that someone waited for another to be with her
that on the same chair
there were some fears
and pains and even longings
and hopes
unrealized and by then
you see that chair not just a chair
you sit there
and you ask it
for this chair though muted by wood
will always have
a story to tell....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Like A River In The Sky
today at its wit's end
can be a chair
under an umbrella
beside a huge tree
in the house
today can be an orderly
thought
sitting down
troubles
letting things once
turbulent simmer
slowly
seeping under your
skin
i put my feet on the
center table
my hands on my navel
i gaze
to all that my eyes
can hold
around me
nothing in particular
i just flow to the air
like a river
in the sky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Wood-Cutter's Night Song
Welcome, red and roundy sun,
Dropping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till morrow-morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
Though to leave your pretty song,
Little birds, it gives me pain,
Yet to-morrow is not long,
Then I'm with you all again.
If I stop, and stand about,
Well I know how things will be,
Judy will be looking out
Every now-and-then for me.
So fare ye well! and hold your tongues,
Sing no more until I come;
They're not worthy of your songs
That never care to drop a crumb.
All day long I love the oaks,
But, at nights, yon little cot,
Where I see the chimney smokes,
Is by far the prettiest spot.
Wife and children all are there,
To revive with pleasant looks,
Table ready set, and chair,
Supper hanging on the hooks.
Soon as ever I get in,
When my faggot down I fling,
Little prattlers they begin
Teasing me to talk and sing.
Welcome, red and roundy sun,
Dropping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till morrow-morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
poem by John Clare
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The Candle
By my bed, on a little round table
The Grandmother placed a candle.
She gave me three kisses telling me they were three
dreams
And tucked me in just where I loved being tucked.
Then she went out of the room and the door was shut.
I lay still, waiting for my three dreams to talk;
But they were silent.
Suddenly I remember giving her three kisses back.
Perhaps, by mistake, I had given my three little
dreams
I sat up in bed.
The room grew big, oh, bigger far than a church.
The wardrobe, quite by itself, as big as a house.
And the jug on the washstand smiled at me:
It was not a friendly smile.
I looked at the basket-chair where my clothes lay
folded:
The chair gave a creak as though it were listening
for something.
Perhaps it was coming alive and going to dress in
my clothes.
But the awful thing was the window:
I could not think what was outside.
No tree to be seen, I was sure,
No nice little plant or friendly pebbly path.
Why did she pull the blind down every night?
It was better to know.
I crunched my teeth and crept out of bed,
I peeped through a slit of the blind.
There was nothing at all to be seen.
But hundreds of friendly candles all over the sky
In remembrance of frightened children.
I went back to bed...
The three dreams started singing a little song.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy?
quote by Albert Einstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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