En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Changes At The Un

I spent my youth with a gun and a dog in the fields of Clare,
Hunting rabbits and pheasants and ducks and fast running hare,
So the long tail feathers of the cock pheasants, I knew well,
Then I became a member Canadian navel personnel.

At the UN in the mid 50s looking down from balcony,
A pheasant feather in a lady’s hat amid UN pageantry,
Sitting down there at the Irish desk but she didn’t care,
That the face on the balcony came all the way from County Clare.

But those were the days when the UN had a very good name,
Not like nowadays when so many tend to viciously complain,
But that was very long ago and I was much younger then,
Am I the only one who noticed the change, now among the old men?

JAN 19th,2011

poem by James Bredin
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The Old Squire

I LIKE the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
I like the joyous morning air,
And the crowing of the cocks.

I like the calm of the early fields,
The ducks asleep by the lake,
The quiet hour which Nature yields
Before mankind is awake.

I like the pheasants and feeding things
Of the unsuspicious morn;
I like the flap of the wood-pigeon’s wings
As she rises from the corn.

I like the blackbird’s shriek, and his rush
From the turnips as I pass by,
And the partridge hiding her head in a bush,
For her young ones cannot fly.

I like these things, and I like to ride,
When all the world is in bed,
To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide,
And where the sun grows red.

The beagles at my horse heels trot
In silence after me;
There ’s Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,
Old Slut and Margery,—

A score of names well used, and dear,
The names my childhood knew;
The horn, with which I rouse their cheer,
Is the horn my father blew.

I like the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
The new world still is all less fair
Than the old world it mocks.

I covet not a wider range
Than these dear manors give;
I take my pleasures without change,
And as I lived I live.

I leave my neighbors to their thought;
My choice it is, and pride,
On my own lands to find my sport,
In my own fields to ride.

The hare herself no better loves
The field where she was bred,
Than I the habit of these groves,
My own inherited.

I know my quarries every one,
The meuse where she sits low;
The road she chose to-day was run
A hundred years ago.

The lags, the gills, the forest ways,
The hedgerows one and all,
These are the kingdoms of my chase,
And bounded by my wall;

Nor has the world a better thing,
Though one should search it round,
Than thus to live one’s own sole king,
Upon one’s own sole ground.

I like the hunting of the hare;
It brings me, day by day,
The memory of old days as fair,
With dead men passed away.

To these, as homeward still I ply
And pass the churchyard gate,
Where all are laid as I must lie,
I stop and raise my hat.

I like the hunting of the hare;
New sports I hold in scorn.
I like to be as my fathers were,
In the days e’er I was born.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Pheasant's Nest

On a warm evening on the second day of July
As I walked through the high grass upwards a bird did fly
A bantam sized mottled brown bird with low and short quick flight
Beyond the hedge she disappeared from sight.

There at my feet amongst the high grass as I looked down
In her simple nest her ten eggs of greeny brown
I dared not touch them on them only gazed
At such a thing of Natural beauty quite amazed.

By chance alone the hen pheasant's nest I'd found
Since I had walked the fields for miles around
And only once see a pheasant with her young they flew away
And amongst the high grass hidden they did stay.

A school friend of mine once raised pheasants in an outdoor cage
And he sold them to a gun club at their adult stage
The gun club in late September set them free
At the time of wild pheasants a scarcity.

I still recall that evening in July
The mottled pheasant from her nest did fly
And I was eight and of Nature little did know
And that was more than fifty years ago.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Phoebe Prince

An immigrant from County Clare
brought to this harsher clime-
Phoebe Prince, an Irish rose,
a gentle heart and mind.

First used, and then discarded
by one boy, then another.-
Object of the mean girl’s scorn
Phoebe was “the outsider”
On the last day of her short life
They hounded her from school.
The girl they called the “Irish slut”
was made to feel the fool..

Her sister, Lauren, found her body
hanging lifeless in the hall.
Befriended by nobody
Phoebe chose to end it all

And on the day they held her wake
Those monsters held their dance
A debutante cotillion
for a troop of soulless tramps.

She’s buried here in County Clare
because the Ocean's waves
separate her from the harpies
who drove her to the grave

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Rabbit

Rabbits, rabbits everywhere
Bigger than a rat
Smaller than a hare
Jump, hop in the grass
Eating carrots
Hoping fast

Rabbits, rabbits fluffy fur
Hunting season
They hustle and stir
Pointy ears, bushy tails
Wet nose
Hind legs down the trail

Rabbits, rabbits into holes
Time for bed
Bless their souls
Now all tucked in and put to sleep
No noise in the hole
Not even a peep

poem by TaBresha Bozeman
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There was a Young Lady of Clare,
Who was sadly pursued by a bear;
When she found she was tired,
She abruptly expired,
That unfortunate Lady of Clare.

by Edward Lear from A Book of Nonsense (1846)
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Maude Clare

Out of the church she followed them
With a lofty step and mien:
His bride was like a village maid,
Maude Clare was like a queen.

“Son Thomas, ” his lady mother said,
With smiles, almost with tears:
“May Nell and you but live as true
As we have done for years;

“Your father thirty years ago
Had just your tale to tell;
But he was not so pale as you,
Nor I so pale as Nell.”

My lord was pale with inward strife,
And Nell was pale with pride;
My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare
Or ever he kissed the bride.

“Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,
Have brought my gift, ” she said:
To bless the hearth, to bless the board,
To bless the marriage-bed.

“Here’s my half of the golden chain
You wore about your neck,
That day we waded ankle-deep
For lilies in the beck:

“Here’s my half of the faded leaves
We plucked from the budding bough,
With feet amongst the lily leaves, -
The lilies are budding now.”

He strove to match her scorn with scorn,
He faltered in his place:
“Lady, ” he said, - “Maude Clare, ” he said, -
“Maude Clare, ” – and hid his face.

She turn’d to Nell: “My Lady Nell,
I have a gift for you;
Though, were it fruit, the blooms were gone,
Or, were it flowers, the dew.

“Take my share of a fickle heart,
Mine of a paltry love:
Take it or leave it as you will,
I wash my hands thereof.”

“And what you leave, ” said Nell, “I’ll take,
And what you spurn, I’ll wear;
For he’s my lord for better and worse,
And him I love Maude Clare.

“Yea, though you’re taller by the head,
More wise and much more fair:
I’ll love him till he loves me best,
Me best of all Maude Clare.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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First Time

My girl and me, we had never meet or seen eachother
meet on internet, happened love n promised to live together
on the balcony of my college we made a plan to meet
she would cook n bring lunch, and for hour we would sit…

next day a wondered, amazed and a shy girl came alone
sat next to me, she was waiting for someone
for long time she sat alone, I was also waiting for someone
my girl, then I realized she has to be the one

I asked her name and yes she was my girl
We were sitting together and waiting but didn't knew at all
That the we were waiting eachother, then I sat near her
We didn't talked much but for long time only looked eachother

poem by Sushanta Rokka
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The Old Days - And The New

‘Mid wattle scents and sounds of Spring,
The old man, dreaming in his chair,
Is back where skylarks soar and sing
In sunshine, o’er the hills of Clare.
And since all Irishmen have been,
True lovers, since the world began,
A flush still tints his withered cheek
At thoughts of Bessie Quinlevan.

‘Ah Danny, lad, she was the girl,
So fine and straight in all her ways,
The price of every dance and fair,
There’s no such women nowadays!”
Young Danny, plaiting stockwhip thongs,
Smiles o’er his grandsire’s lock of grey,
Rememb’ring with a lovers pride,
The wild-rise grace of Betty Shea.

The old man in his dreams pursues,
Through hurling fields the flying ball,
Where his swift stroke was keen and strong,
And his the fleetest foot of all.
While Danny whistling as he goes,
Thinks of the latest football fray,
Leading the victors down the field,
Beneath the smile of Betty Shea.

Sweet Bessie Quinleven is gone,
In Clare churchyard her body lies,
Her gentle soul has blossomed long
Amid the flowers of Paradise.
But through the sweetness of the Spring,
By winding paths with wattle gay,
Radiant with youth and happy love,
Young Danny rides with Betty Shea.

poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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A Miracle for Breakfast

At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.

poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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From a Great Height.

Beneath her balcony he’d sing
and promise love eternally.
The maiden spurned his offering.
She knew of his philandering.

But undeterred he’d nightly sing.
Experienced in the ways of maids.
He knew she would be listening
to hear his mandolin tinkling.

Eventually she would relent
appear upon the balcony.
Although she doubted his intent.
By trial and experiment.

He’d found that curiosity
A fatal weakness in young maids
would bring her to the balcony.
It always worked successfully.

It always had done in the past.
This maid was made of sterner stuff.
She vowed tonight would be the last
and down upon his head she cast.

The contents of her chamber pot.
Which served to dampen his ardour
Attar of roses it was not.
Although he deserved what he got.

I felt some little sympathy
to see him so discomfited.
To be drenched unexpectedly
in his intended victims pee.

A message that he’d not forget.
This lady was no easy prey.
The chamber pot she had upset
Has soaked him in Eau de Toilet.

He quickly hurried from the scene.
His pride damaged beyond repair.
His parting comments were obscene.
At least I thought they must have been..

No longer does the troubadour
Sing below her balcony
Sweet serenades about amour
No one has seen him any more.

07/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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To John Clare

Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The old cock-robin to the sty is come,
With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;
And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,
Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,
Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,
Swept out by little folks an hour ago;
The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes--
The little boy lets home-close nesting go,
And pockets tops and taws, where daisies blow,
To look at the new number just laid down,
With lots of pictures, and good stories too,
And Jack the Giant-killer's high renown.

poem by John Clare
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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One Of These Days

One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
And Im gonna try
And thank them all for the good times together.
Though so apart weve grown.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
And Im gonna thank,
That old country fiddler
And all those rough boys
Who play that rock n roll
I never tried to burn any bridges
Though I know I let some good things go.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
From down in l.a.
All the way to nashville,
From new york city
To my canadian prairie home
My friends are scattered
Like leaves from an old maple.
Some are weak, some are strong.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.

song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Irish Granny

A Tribute To My Irish Granny

By Marie Hurst on 17 June 2011

land of my grt grt grt grandmother beckon to me

Lure me home over the Irish sea

There with eyes of pure emerald green

My granny once walked, my Irish queen

Mary I never knew you, I wish I had

You died long before for that am sad

All I know is you where my granny

my Irish queen.

from County Derry, Where I have never been

Let the Irish music play so sweet

let the shamrocks be crushed not by my feet

For I am the outsider, born in the UK

yet I would love to be Irish Just for a day

Mary Glendenning born in 1836 I love you

I have never seen your home land

But May God Bless You

poem by Marie Causey
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So this is all a game

So this is all a game

I put my name tag on
You look at my face
Complete

And you are there lurking
From a balcony
Looking at me

I am real. I am the specimen.

You are all wearing masks
In a balcony of
Darkness

I am real.

And you all laughed so hard

“How can this real guy be so stupid? ”

The bastards are still alive.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. January

COVER SHOOTING

The week at Whinwood next to Christmas week.
Six guns, no more, but all good men and true,
Of the clean--visaged sort, with ruddy cheek
Which knows not care. Light--hearted Montagu
At the cover's end, as down the wind they flew,
Has stopped his score of pheasants, every beak,
Without more thought of Juliet than of you;
And still I hear his loud--mouthed Purdeys speak.

Tybalt and Paris, with a bet on hand,
Have fired at the same woodcock. ``Truce,'' say I,
``To civil jars.'' For look, as by command,
Bunch following bunch, a hundred pheasants fly.
Now battle, murder, death on every side!
Right, left, left, right, we pile up agony,
Till night stops all. Then home in chastened pride,
With aching heads, our slaughter satisfied.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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To Hell Or Havana

Hurry up McGillacuddy, you’ll soon be on your way.
No more you’ll hunt the pheasants with a shotgun by the bay,
No more you’ll watch the farmers cutting turf down by the bogs,
Or sheep up on the mountains being herded by the dogs.

You’ll seldom hear the pipes again or watch the colleens dance.
You’ll join the long tradition; no there’s not a single chance,
That there’s work for you in Ireland; the economy is dead.
It’s nineteen fifty four my boy; too many mouths to be fed

Hurry up McGillacuddy show them that you’re keen,
Get on that dock and board that ship you’re almost seventeen.
Don’t show them that your heart is broke or that you want to cry,
You’re proud to be an Irishman so hold your head up high.

This ship is packed with emigrants from England, Scotland, Wales.
They’re singing blimey British songs and telling taller tales.
They say you’ve got a brogue my friend and that you’re young and green,
Your patriotic pride is hurt when you’re almost seventeen.

Hurry up McGillacuddy you’re a stranger on your own.
The loneliness you’ve come to know hurts right down to the bone.
You’ll never fish the Fergus or walk Rinanna hunting hare.
These strangers here don’t know your world nor do they even care.

That place you knew just the other day; it’s gone forever now.
Was it all just an illusion - another world somehow?
Where are those voices that you heard - the choir in the church?
When you had all the answers and no god-forsaken search.

Hurry up McGillacuddy forget all you have done.
Canadian Immigration waits at Pier twenty-one.
They’ll process you in a minute flat and send you on your way.
You’re one of a thousand immigrants came to Halifax today.

The train is long and crowded too; no time for much emotion,
Past names like Shibinacadie it glides in locomotion.
Trapped days and nights in a carriage tight with your loneliness and pride,
You have to endure this steady strain and take it in your stride.

Hurry up McGillacuddy you’re going to shovel shit,
On a farm near Burlington; it wont hurt your pride a bit.
Three milk machines and a washcloth rag with forty Holstein cows,
In a barn big as a cathedral, some goats, some pigs, some sows.

And when you’re done with milking and feeding all that pork,
There’s a meadow with bales of hay as big as County Cork.
These farmers are a dour lot with harrows hoes and ploughs,
They toss those bales of hay all day and then milk forty cows.

Hurry up McGillacuddy, time to change career,
Your pay is nearly nothing; this slavery austere,
And the loneliness that lingers and haunts you day and night,
On a vast expanse of farm where you have no birthright.

You’re off to join the navy and you’re going back to sea,
But first to Cornwallis where you dare not disagree.
It’s yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir and running all around.
And when you’re finished marching you better go pipe down.

Hurry up McGillacuddy you’re on a navy ship,
And when you’re old enough, they’ll give you lots of rum to sip.
You’re an able seaman signalman; read those flags and flashing lights.
You’re off to the Caribbean and maybe see some sights.

It was midnight in Havana when Batista ruled the day,
And Castro ruled the hills but you had to spend your pay.
That girl with hair as black as coal, she lured you into sin,
Did you go to confession yet; how long has it been?

poem by James Bredin
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In Green Old Duhallow From Here Far Away

The fields in their beautiful wildflowers of May
In green old Duhallow from here far away
And nesting birds sing in grove and on hedgerow
In Cullen where Araglen waters do flow

On to the Blackwater en route to the sea
The old river babbles on eternally
Through a Countryside that is as ancient as time
That has inspired poets of the past for to rhyme

About the great beauty around them they had seen
In May when the landscape was looking so green
For May is a beautiful time of the year
In green old Duhallow so far north of here

The wonders of Nature a thing to enjoy
The cock pheasants are cucking in old Lisnaboy
In fancy I am back in the long ago
Just remembering a beauty that I used to know.

Were I a poet of such beauty I would write
White butterflies flitting in the warm sunlight
and cock robin with the sun on his red breast sing
In green old Duhallow in the latter Spring.

In fancy the song of the chaffinch I hear
In green old Duhallow so far north of here
Where the babbling waters of Araglen flow
Through fields to the Blackwater by grove and hedgerow.

poem by Francis Duggan
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a pessimistic view from a balcony in Paris

A Pessimistic view from a Balcony in Paris

Fine rain, open umbrella, sitting on the balcony of a hotel
overlooking Haussmann – Saint Lazare. A throng of people
and cars, but something as changed, people drinks Starbuck
coffee and eat burgers on the hoof. Old restaurants are
closing or converted to fast-food joints. I sigh and drink from
a bottle of Bordeaux to avoid getting rainwater in my wine.
This place together with rue d’Amsterdam used to be where
the posh people lived and now, safe for the ruddy scrap yard
tower, this could have been downtown New York.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Return Of Pan

I stood upon the balcony with my brand new bride
The clink of bells came drifting down the mountainside
When in our sight something moved
- lightning eyed and cloven hooved -
The great God pan is alive!
He moves amid the modern world in disguise
Its possible to look into his immortal eyes
Hes like a man youd meet anyplace
Until you recognise that ancient face
The great God pan is alive!
At sea on a ship in a thunder storm
On the very night that christ was born
A sailor heard from overhead
A mighty voice cry pan is dead!
So follow christ as best you can
Pan is dead! long live pan!
From the olden days and up through all the years
From arcadia to the stone fields of inisheer
Some say the gods are just a myth
But guess who Ive been dancing with
The great God pan is alive!

song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lady Clare

IT was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn-
Lovers long-betroth'd were they:
They too will wed the morrow morn:
God's blessing on the day !

'He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well,' said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,
Said, 'Who was this that went from thee?'
'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare,
'To-morrow he weds vith me.'

'O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse,
' That all comes round so just and fair:
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare.'

'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?'
Said Lady Clare, 'that ye speak so wild?'
'As God's above,' said Alice the nurse,
' I speak the truth: you are my child.

'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;
I speak the truth, as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead.'

'Falsely, falsely have ye done,
O mother,' she said, ' if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse,
'But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
When you are man and wife.'

' If I'm a beggar born,' she said,
'I will speak out, for I dare not lie.
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,
And fling the diamond necklace by.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse,
'But keep the secret all ye can.'
She said, ' Not so: but I will know
If there be any faith in man.'

'Nay now, what faith ?' said Alice the nurse,
'The man will cleave unto his right.'
'And he shall have it,' the lady replied,
'Tho' I should die to-night.'

'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear !
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.'
'O mother, mother, mother,' she said,
'So strange it seems to me.

'Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go.'

She clad herself in a russet gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,
And follow'd her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:
'O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you drest like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth?'

'If I come drest like a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are:
I am a beggar born,' she said,
'And not the Lady Clare.'

'Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald,
'For I am yours in word and in deed.
Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald,
'Your riddle is hard to read.'

O and proudly stood she up !
Her heart within her did not fail:
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes,
And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn:
He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood:
'If you are not the heiress born,
And I,' said he, 'the next in blood--

'If you are not the heiress born,
And I,' said he, ' the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare.'

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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