Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode
Are they clinging to their crosses,
F. E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?
Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard --
With a crib to read it with --
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford answered."
Really, Smith?
In the lands where Christians were,
F. E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.
It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples...
Chuck it, Smith!
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode
Are they clinging to their crosses,
F. E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?
Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard -
With a crib to read it with -
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford answered."
Really, Smith?
In the lands where Christians were,
F. E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.
It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples...
Chuck it, Smith!
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bones
Said Mr. Smith, “I really cannot
Tell you, Dr. Jones—
The most peculiar pain I’m in—
I think it’s in my bones.”
Said Dr. Jones, “Oh, Mr. Smith,
That’s nothing. Without doubt
We have a simple cure for that;
It is to take them out.”
He laid forthwith poor Mr. Smith
Close-clamped upon the table,
And, cold as stone, took out his bones
As fast as he was able.
Smith said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,”
And wished him a good-day;
And with his parcel ‘neath his arm
He slowly moved away.
poem by Walter de la Mare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Zero Bars (Mr. Smith)
my name is Smith
your silence is my trade
my name is Smith
here in this bar you fade out
time heals nothing
it merely rearranges our memory
in zero bars
even time no longer seems willing to try
please look around
empty faces that never quite die
don't be surprised
their bodies move by habit, look in their eyes
nothing is real
if you break down and cry they won't even stare
nobody feels
it's far too risky to admit that you care
my name is Smith
your silence is my trade
my name is Smith
here in this bar you fade out
Gary Numan, "Zero Bars (Mr. Smith)", _T_u_b_e_w_a_y _A_r_m_y (Beggars Banquet/ATCO 1978)
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Zero Bars
My name is smith
Your silence is my trade
My name is smith
Here in this bar you fade out
Time heals nothing
It merely rearranges our memory
In zero bars
Even time no longer seems willing to try
Please look around
Empty faces that never quite die
Don't be surprised
Their bodies move by habit, look in their eyes
Nothing is real
If you break down and cry they won't even stare
Nobody feels
It's far too risky to admit that you care
My name is smith
Your silence is my trade
My name is smith
Here in this bar you fade out
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little John Smith
LO, AS I WALKED PAST SMITHSONS MEADOW,
I SAW A NAKED INFANT RUN OUT OF A BARN,
HE LAUGHED AS HE RAN TOWARDS ME,
HO, WHAT BE THY NAME LAD?
AND THE YOUNG LAD REPLIED?
I AM JOHN SMITH! HE SAID AS HE RAN OFF,
THIS WAS TWENTY AND SIX YEARS AGO,
AYE, I RETURN FROM MY MANY QUESTS FROM LANDS AFAR,
AND A STRONG MALE VOICE STOPPED ME AND SAID,
WHO BE YE AND WHENCE GOEST THOU? HE ASKED
AND I SAID, AH MY GOOD MAN, I AM HARRY BOLDS OF BOLDS FARM AND I RETURN FROM MY MANY JOURNEYS AFTER TWENTY AND SIX YEARS AWAY FROM HOME, SAID I,
GOOD THEN, I AM LORD JOHN SMITH!
LORD OF THE LANDS OF SMITHSONS AND I SAY THIS TO YOU,
TELL THIS TO MY WARRIORS AS YOU PASS TROUGH THE TOWN,
THAT I, LORD SMITH HAS GRANTED YOU SAFE PASSAGE THROUGH MY LANDS FOR I KNOW OF THE BOLDS FARMS, STATED THE LAD AND HE TURNED AND WALKED OFF,
WHAT A MARVEL! TOUGHT I, LITTLE JOHN SMITH IS NOW A WARRIOR LORD AND NOW GRANTS ME SAFE PASSAGE THROUGH THIS LANDS!
IT IS WELL THEN, THE INFANT IS NOW AN ADULT,
WATCH THY STEP, LEST YOU OFFEND A LITTLE JOHN SMITH WHO MAY BE THE ONE TO GRANT YOU YOUR LIFE IN THE FUTURE!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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Bessie Smith
Bessie was more than a friend of mine
We shared the good times and the bad
Well many years has since passed me by
I still recall the best thing I ever had
Now I'm going down the road to see Bessie
Oh see her soon
I'm just going down the road to see Bessie Smith
When I get there I wondering what she'll do
Now all the crazy things I had to try
Well I tried them all and then some
But if you're lucky one day you will find out
Where it is that you're really coming from
Now I'm going down the road to see Bessie
Oh see her soon
I'm just going down the road to see Bessie Smith
When I get there I wondering what she'll do
Now in my day I've made some foolish moves
But back then I didn't worry about a thing
Now and again I still wonder to myself
Was it the sweet love or the way that she could sing
I'm just going down the road to see Bessie Smith
When I get there I wondering what she'll do
I'm just going down the road to see Bessie Smith
When I get there I wondering what she'll do
song performed by by Norah Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I had to focus and create a character in Bagger Vance, not just do my 'Will Smith' thing and get paid.
quote by Will Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If I owe Smith ten dollars and God forgives me, that doesn't pay Smith.
quote by Robert Green Ingersoll
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After Earth
Will Smith, Jaden Smith, Isabelle Fuhrman, Zoe Kravitz, Sacha Dhawan
by Stephen Gaghan from After Earth (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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One of my major competitors was Harold Smith. Smith beat me in 1977. I was loafing during that competition.
quote by Edwin Moses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Was It You?
"Hullo, young Jones! with your tie so gay
And your pen behind your ear;
Will you mark my cheque in the usual way?
For I'm overdrawn, I fear."
Then you look at me in a manner bland,
As you turn your ledger's leaves,
And you hand it back with a soft white hand,
And the air of a man who grieves. . . .
"Was it you, young Jones, was it you I saw
(And I think I see you yet)
With a live bomb gripped in your grimy paw
And your face to the parapet?
With your lips asnarl and your eyes gone mad
With a fury that thrilled you through. . . .
Oh, I look at you now and I think, my lad,
Was it you, young Jones, was it you?
"Hullo, young Smith, with your well-fed look
And your coat of dapper fit,
Will you recommend me a decent book
With nothing of War in it?"
Then you smile as you polish a finger-nail,
And your eyes serenely roam,
And you suavely hand me a thrilling tale
By a man who stayed at home.
"Was it you, young Smith, was it you I saw
In the battle's storm and stench,
With a roar of rage and a wound red-raw
Leap into the reeking trench?
As you stood like a fiend on the firing-shelf
And you stabbed and hacked and slew. . . .
Oh, I look at you and I ask myself,
Was it you, young Smith, was it you?
"Hullo, old Brown, with your ruddy cheek
And your tummy's rounded swell,
Your garden's looking jolly chic
And your kiddies awf'ly well.
Then you beam at me in your cheery way
As you swing your water-can;
And you mop your brow and you blithely say:
`What about golf, old man?'
"Was it you, old Brown, was it you I saw
Like a bull-dog stick to your gun,
A cursing devil of fang and claw
When the rest were on the run?
Your eyes aflame with the battle-hate. . . .
As you sit in the family pew,
And I see you rising to pass the plate,
I ask: Old Brown, was it you?
"Was it me and you? Was it you and me?
(Is that grammar, or is it not?)
Who groveled in filth and misery,
Who gloried and groused and fought?
Which is the wrong and which is the right?
Which is the false and the true?
The man of peace or the man of fight?
Which is the ME and the YOU?"
poem by Robert William Service
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Driver Smith
'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight;
He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night --
"Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war," says he,
"I'll go a-driving and ambulance in the ranks of the A.M.C.
"I'm fairly sick of these here parades -- it's want of a change that kills --
A-charging the Randwick Rifle Range and aiming at Surry Hills.
And I think if I go with the ambulance I'm certain to find a show,
For they have to send the Medical men wherever the troops can go.
"Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din,
It's here you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in --
A-raking 'em in like human flies -- and a driver smart like me
Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C."
So Driver Smith he went to war a-cracking his driver's whip,
From ambulance to collecting base they showed him his regular trip.
And he said to the boys that were marching past, as he gave his whip a crack,
"You'll walk yourselves to the fight," says he -- "Lord spare me, I'll drive you back."
Now the fight went on in the Transvaal hills for the half of a day or more,
And Driver Smith he worked his trip -- all aboard for the seat of war!
He took his load from the stretcher men and hurried 'em homeward fast
Till he heard a sound that he knew full well -- a battery rolling past.
He heard the clink of the leading chains and the roll of the guns behind --
He heard the crack of the drivers' whips, and he says to 'em, "Strike me blind,
I'll miss me trip with this ambulance, although I don't care to shirk,
But I'll take the car off the line today and follow the guns at work."
Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face.
"Sit down and shift 'e,, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place."
So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance,
And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance.
They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large,
When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge;
They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right,
And Driver Smith and his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight.
The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought as the wild cats fight,
For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight;
But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave away,
Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray.
He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro,
A hard old face with a monkey beard -- a face that he seemed to know;
"Now who's that leader?" said Driver Smith. "I've seen him before today.
Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self," and he jumped for him straight away.
He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van.
It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man;
But he forced him in and said, "All aboard, we're off for a little ride,
And you'll have the car to yourself," says he, "I reckon we're full inside."
He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace,
A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase;
Bur Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, "Good-day,
You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A."
He drove his team to the hospital bed and said to the P.M.O.,
"Beg pardon, sir, but I missed the trip, mistaking the way to go;
And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed,
So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head."
So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more,
For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war.
And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night,
And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Conundrum
I am not who I say I am
Who I say I am, is not, who I am
So who am I?
cue.....'Looks intently at the words and trys to read them, backwards! '
minus so...moving question mark back three spaces'
william shakespeare aka? yvette smith
circa march09
poem by Yvette Smith
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A Smith
A smith was of words with a splendid death,
The main presence of death meant nothing.
Words are for deeds as the fish in the sea
Escalate and provide for their impoverishment.
The island of an ending close to the very edge
Is of maximum importance, and the ultimate sacrifice
Is yet to come.
This heavenly world resides in the heavens as well,
Hard efforts require cheaper diseases of the pen,
Hard are the gains of a forever summer and winter
As they dance among your moments one time to come.
The smith with words is a smith to gain remedies for himself,
These phrases are from him and him alone.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The man who lost his soul
The man who lost his soul had a hole for a heart,
And so, wherever he went, there was a draught
Until one day he met his 'better half'
And feeling complete
He could thaw his sad frozen feet, at last
At the fire of love
And all loss was a thing of the past!
yvette m smith jan 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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After Earth [Kitai Discovers Monkeys]
Will Smith, Jaden Smith
from After Earth (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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After Earth [Retrieve the Beacon]
Will Smith, Jaden Smith
from After Earth (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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One Of The Saints
Big Smith is an Oakland School Board man,
And he looks as good as ever he can;
And he's such a cold and a chaste Big Smith
That snowflakes all are his kin and kith.
Wherever his eye he chances to throw
The crystals of ice begin to grow;
And the fruits and flowers he sees are lost
By the singeing touch of a sudden frost.
The women all shiver whenever he's near,
And look upon _us_ with a look austere-
Effect of the Smithian atmosphere.
Such, in a word, is the moral plan
Of the Big, Big Smith, the School Board man.
When told that Madame Ferrier had taught
_Hernani_ in school, his fist he brought
Like a trip-hammer down on his bulbous knee,
And he roared: 'Her Nanny? By gum, we'll see
If the public's time she dares devote
To the educatin' of any dam goat!'
'You do not entirely comprehend-
_Hernani's_ a play,' said his learned friend,
'By Victor Hugo-immoral and bad.
What's worse, it's French!' 'Well, well, my lad,'
Said Smith, 'if he cuts a swath so wide
I'll have him took re'glar up and tried!'
And he smiled so sweetly the other chap
Thought that himself was a Finn or Lapp
Caught in a storm of his native snows,
With a purple ear and an azure nose.
The Smith continued: 'I never pursue
Immoral readin'.' And that is true:
He's a saint of remarkably high degree,
With a mind as chaste as a mind can be;
But read!-the devil a word can he!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Artistic intent
My ego is as red as the night is dark
Blood red it spills through my heart
Tred carefully you blind, you deaf, you mute
For you tred on my dreams! YOU BRUTE!
y.m smith poet of the uk
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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