Rennes
RENNES
A Sunday lunch was set to greet
the stranger, who’d begot with child
an eldest daughter, sweet and mild.
They anxiously desired to meet
the man she hoped would never cheat,
by whom three years she’d been beguiled.
They little spoke, though surface-smiled,
uncertain how they had to treat
the situation, stayed discrete.
The time passed swiftly, nothing riled,
they comfort took, felt reconciled
to facts discussed without deceit.
He left. They felt relaxed, although
still wondered what next year would show.
21 October 1995
robi03_0784_robi03_0000 SXX_MOX
© Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
A Meeting
Queen, widowed Mother of a widowed child,
Whose ancient sorrow goeth forth to meet
Her new-born sorrow with parental feet,
And tearful eyes that oft on hers have smiled,
Will not your generous heart be now beguiled
From its too lonely anguish, as You greet
Her anguish, yet more cruel and complete,
And, through her woe, with woe be reconciled?
Or if this may not be, and all the years
Of love's bereavement be withal too brief
To bring slow solace to still lengthening grief
For loss of One whom distance but endears,
Surely to Both will come some sad relief,
Sharing the comfort of commingled tears.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Sage’s Response to the Septuagenarian
The Sage’s Response to the Septuagenarian
How many earthly empires
the circling sun must set?
Friend, hast felt of love fires?
Mere mortal smile, why fret?
© Jonathan Robin robi3_0021 4 November 1974
Threescore years and Ten
October’s moon is wane,
May’s sun may not be here:
how many Springs remain
my weary way to cheer?
© Jonathan Robin robi3_0020 4 November 1974
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Threescore years and Ten
Threescore years and Ten
October’s moon is wane,
May’s sun may not be here:
how many Springs remain
my weary way to cheer?
© Jonathan Robin robi3_0020 4 November 1974
The Sage’s Response to the Septuagenarian
How many earthly empires
the circling sun must set?
Friend, hast felt of love fires?
Mere mortal smile, why fret?
© Jonathan Robin robi3_0021 4 November 1974
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Not A Child
'Not a child: I call myself a boy,'
Says my king, with accent stern yet mild,
Now nine years have brought him change of joy;
'Not a child.'
How could reason be so far beguiled,
Err so far from sense's safe employ,
Stray so wide of truth, or run so wild?
Seeing his face bent over book or toy,
Child I called him, smiling: but he smiled
Back, as one too high for vain annoy -
Not a child.
II.
Not a child? alack the year!
What should ail an undefiled
Heart, that he would fain appear
Not a child?
Men, with years and memories piled
Each on other, far and near,
Fain again would so be styled:
Fain would cast off hope and fear,
Rest, forget, be reconciled:
Why would you so fain be, dear,
Not a child?
III.
Child or boy, my darling, which you will,
Still your praise finds heart and song employ,
Heart and song both yearning toward you still,
Child or boy.
All joys else might sooner pall or cloy
Love than this which inly takes its fill,
Dear, of sight of your more perfect joy.
Nay, be aught you please, let all fulfil
All your pleasure; be your world your toy:
Mild or wild we love you, loud or still,
Child or boy.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Only A Dream
METHOUGHT I saw thee yesternight
Sit by me in the olden guise,
The white robes and the pain foregone,
Weaving instead of amaranth crown
A web of mortal dyes.
I cried, 'Where hast thou been so long?'
(The mild eyes turned and mutely smiled
'Why dwellest thou in far-off lands?
What is that web within thy hands?'
--'I work for thee, my child.'
I clasped thee in my arms and wept;
I kissed thee oft with passion wild:
I poured fond questions, tender blame;
Still thy sole answer was the same,--
'I work for thee, my child.'
'Come and walk with me as of old.'
Then camest thou, silent as before;
We passed along that churchyard way
We used to tread each Sabbath day,
Till one trod earth no more.
I felt thy hand upon my arm,
Beside me thy meek face I saw,
Yet through the sweet familiar grace
A something spiritual could trace
That left a nameless awe.
Trembling I said, 'Long years have passed
Since thou wert from my side beguiled;
Now thou'rt returned and all shall be
As was before.'--Half-pensively
Thou answered'st--'Nay, my child.'
I pleaded sore: 'Hadst thou forgot
The love wherewith we loved of old,--
The long sweet days of converse blest,
The nights of slumber on thy breast,--
Wert thou to me grown cold?'
There beamed on me those eyes of heaven
That wept no more, but ever smiled;
'Love only is love in that Home
Where I abide--where, till thou come,
I work for thee, my child.'
If from my sight thou passedst then,
Or if my sobs the dream exiled,
I know not: but in memory clear
I seem these strange words still to hear,
'I work for thee, my child.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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What Is, Was
WHAT IS, WAS
What is, was, what was, will be, -
The wheel turns while Time cheats
Those who'd cheat time.
5 September 1998
What is Was_19980911_What is, was, what was, will be ROBIN Jonathan 1947_20xx robi03_0886_robi03_0000 XXX_CJZ
Poem What Is, Was © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Country Child
I’m country child, spurn town defiled, pollution makes me wild.
When Spring’s waft breeze soft tickles trees, from beaten tracks I keep,
with heart beguiled by creatures wild, through woodland dim and deep
my way make mid the forest hid with self am reconciled.
From city guil[e]d, souls’ stress, soles riled, I’ve strayed, at peace abide
with sun and shade on woodland glade, in valley, mountain steep,
delight each sense with joy intense, - a harvest rich to reap
from Spring which rings till Autumn brings its fruits by bushels piled.
I fly with bee from tree to tree’s bright blossom pink and white.
No cities know pure streams, dawn’s glow, air fresh and fragrant where
there is no smoke, where folk won’t yoke each other to despair.
Suburban spite, skyscrapers’ height, can’t quite convince as right.
Imagine plight of elf or sprite confined too tight! Maid, knight
stroll hand in hand through leafy land in freedom everywhere,
no asking why, nor spoke reply, we’d need, nor seek, nor care,
for spirit mild of open child soars through delight, finds flight.
Love’s love’s invite, both greet the light when dawn’s first flush is born
with badger, bird, with lowing herd, we’d sit and stare, take time,
no clocks absurd, no siren whirred, should compromise love’s rhyme,
so haste with me to taste joys free, no more to fee in pawn.
Lets brave the wind with hair unpinned, love at first sight ‘tis styled,
eyes seeking eyes flush fresh surprise through morning, noon and night.
As seasons flow all reasons go, know heights, no lows, excite
summations which together stitch two into one beguiled.
Nature’s Child
Oh, I’m a child of the country, spurning city defiled and grim,
my heart’s beguiled by creatures wild, and the woodlands deep and dim.
When the warm south winds fall, soothing, from the ferny forest’s feet,
come the nightingales’ songs each even, in madrigals mild and sweet.
For I am a child of the country, Spring orchards soften my sight
when the bees fly to the blossomed boughs, whose buds lie pink and white.
Then hand in hand in the sunlight stroll my soul’s betrothed and I,
nor need we words to question, nor words to heed reply.
Yes I am a child of the country, longing for lush fields at dawn,
where the air feels fresh and fragrant, when sun’s first faint flush is born,
then thrush appeals to starling: ‘Fie, forsake thy stealing way! ’
and the badger cubs, and the birds, and I, welcome the break of day!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Claridges
The same discrete blue paper and the old quill pen still play
upon the mind to summon summer’s memories as day
melts darkling sky from dusty pink to inky undertones, -
extrapolating time’s ebb tide, when flesh fades from the bones.
How short will be the stay this time, so few have means to pay
a monthly wage within the compass of a weekend, - drones
disguised as business men of size who bore in monotones,
beneath ambitions buried deep to mask their hearts’ dismay.
The tasteful paper blue recalls those images of scones
and endless teas on sunny lawns - now concrete covers - hay
last harvested so long ago that only archived loans
remember that prosperity’s elastic silicone
pressed out upon b[l]uff surface, soon may wear, and tear or fray.
The phantom of King Credit past, now overdrawn and grey,
still stays in suite identical – though fax and telephone
add a touch of innovation to that décor so well known.
Yet despite the surface changes both cuisine and service stay
tailored to the highest standards, all the rules of taste obey.
© Jonathan Robin – poem written 1 October 1992
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Queen
You use to treat me like a king
Oh how well loved I felt
I felt I was your everything
So secure I would melt
Now I feel beaten like a dog
Totally confused and spent
And so with sadness, desire fades
Struggle thru each day all bent
I no longer laugh at all these ways
Much less hold my head up high
So beaten that I crawl hands all crazed
Worked hard to hide how I cried
All this effort to build a life
Now no matter how I try
You greet me with your shattered screams
So abuse that each day I would die
Soul crippling and wrought with pain
I don't feel much loved, less desired
No comfort or pride- as my health subsides
Just weighted, bone dead and tired
A victim of your selfish self
All strewn about and shattered
A parcel in your ratted wealth
I'm left to be alone and battered
poem by Talile Ali
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Stage to Stage
One wore hoar age as well as most who count from tear to tear,
as stage succeeded stage geared down, while rage at age’s sting
increased as waning youth began to spread its restless wing,
while all too lucidly was heard furred dreaded footfall near.
One bore sore rage as well as most who post from year to year,
hale Summer paled, frail Autumn failed full promises to bring
to fruit as root from tree and shoot took little comfort. Ring
to ring adjoined seemed time purloined, no raison d’être clear.
One saw Life’s page criss-cross sage stage barred from tomorrow’s cheer,
time underlined, once wined and dined, uncertain everything
became as game and aim turned tame, lost flavour, savour, zing,
lights on life’s stage in turn caged, rage, dim, swiftly disappear.
The chronicle of wasted time, chased hasty jotted down
as witness to fear's tears, last years fast passed in study brown
12 June 2005 revised 19 November 2008
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Conception of Contraception
Had I been taught the facts of life
before I met my charming wife,
it seems unlikely most to me
we’d see in two years babies three.
© Jonathan Robin 23 July 1974 robi3_0010_robi3_0000 19740723
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Before Action
We always had to do our work at night.
I wondered why we had to be so sly.
I wondered why we couldn't have our fight
Under the open sky.
I wondered why I always felt so cold.
I wondered why the orders seemed so slow,
So slow to come, so whisperingly told,
So whisperingly low.
I wondered if my packing-straps were tight,
And wondered why I wondered……Sound
went wild………
and order came…… I ran into the night,
wondering why I smiled.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Mama, Dont Treat Your Daughter Mean
(ry cooder)
Hey, mama, dont you treat your daughter mean
Hey, mama, dont you treat your daughter mean
cause you treat her so mean and shes only sweet sixteen
It was late last friday evening, when everything was still
I heard somebody calling my name outside my window sill
I got up and I looked outside strainin my eyes to see
And my heart went wild when I realized just who was calling me
I hollered
Hey, mama, dont you treat your daughter mean
Hey, mama, dont you treat your daughter mean
cause you treat her so mean and shes only sweet sixteen
Now, her eyes were blazing up at me
Her hair was black as night
And her naked skin shone like gold
Out in the pale moonlight
She took my hand and she pulled me down
Where the grass had grown up tall
The she moved her body all around
Just like a cannon ball
Hey, mama, dont you treat your daughter mean
Hey, mama, dont you treat your daughter mean
cause you treat her so mean and shes only sweet sixteen
Yonder comes your mama, girl, cross the field
Runnin and a-shakin like an automobile
Daddys got a shotgun in his hand
They just dont understand
The first time I seen that sweet girl
She was runnin home from sunday school
And the next time I seen that sweet little girl
Was when she broke her mamas rule
But the last time I seen that sweet little girl
She was filled with a strange desire
Rollin and tumblin out on the cold wet ground
Her skin burnin up just like a cane fire
She called my name a thousand ways
The tears came streaming down her face
But just when I was bout to blow my stack
Her daddy came a-creepin and a-crawlin up behind
And he shot me in the back
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Muse
Will you ever chance to meet
someone who’s as soft and sweet
as the fair form who I greet
on and off - my mistress meet!
14 January 1975 revised 3 May 2005 robi3_0035
for previous version see below
Muse
Will you ever chance to meet
someone who’s as soft and sweet
as the fair form who I greet
every day, my wife so neat!
14 January 1975
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Overboard - Initial Version 1082
Watch not the day by time nor rhyme by night,
if there's no wrong how can there be a right,
the corner stranger as a friend may greet,
while stranger former friend turns in his plight.
Cause and effect reflect on ends and means
all gridlock must be smashed to smithereens,
judgemental values will themselves defeat
though self-sufficient knowledge puts up screens.
What's hid is bid unriddled when the heart
throws knowledge, judgement, overboard to start
to separate appearance 'surface sheet'
from innner senses' empathy - trust chart.
(16 March 2005)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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We Live, Borrow, Die
We mooch from Time which holds our souls in fee,
Each second stretches short, few make ends meet,
Lies most greet with more lies, man's span spins fleet
In wayward venture, tenure scans Fate's see.
Voice for choice can't stall Eternity,
End sighted, bold goals slighted, none Chance cheat,
Born just to fizzle, phut, bust, worm in wheat,
Our die's cry's fast cast on life's heedless sea.
Responses weak in sect some seek, fear free,
Reviving karma some rewards seek sweet,
On some hearts falls fell drawbridge, self-deceit
Where cause, effect are twisted out of key.
DIne, flask from empty cask drain, desert strip
Echoes ignores, core's terminus: - vain t[r]ip.
15 April 2005 revised 12 January 2010
robi03_1278_robi03_0000 ASX_DJZ
for previous version see below
WE LIVE, BORROW, DIE
W e live on Time which holds itself in fee,
E ach second stretches short, few dare stars greet.
L ies man meets with more lies, his span spins fleet
I n wayward venture, tenure scans Fate's see.
V oice for choice can't stall Eternity,
E nd sighted, aims are slighted, none Chance cheat,
B orn but to fizzle, phut, with worm in wheat,
O ur die's fast cast upon life's swirling sea.
R esponses weak in sects some seek, fear free,
R eviving karma some rewards seek sweet,
O n some hearts falls fell drawbridge of deceit
W here cause, effect are twisted out of key.
DI ne, fed, drain flask, ask bread, by desert strip
E cho empty, terminus, vain trip.
15 April 2005
robi03_1278_robi03_0000 ASX_DJZ
Acrostic Sonnet - WE LIVE, BORROW, DIE
© Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Transience V
Sandy sickle trickle flows
from sure to shore which no-one knows.
Time rhyme measured by man’s mind
soon carved in rime is left behind.
Children that man, spendthrift, sows,
confirm or turn initial woes
as to his heirs ‘the undersigned’
entrusts whatever they may find
to prop or rock, to open close,
to greet as friend or treat as foes,
to spur ambitions transient, blind.
Spun cause, effect, as they unwind
may opportunity disclose
to seek behind rind surface shows,
discover meaning silver-lined...
poem by Jonathan Robin (11 March 2006)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Transience V
Sandy sickle trickle flows
from sure to shore which no-one knows.
Time rhyme measured by man’s mind
soon carved in rime is left behind.
Children that man, spendthrift, sows,
confirm or turn initial woes
as to his heirs ‘the undersigned’
entrusts whatever they may find
to prop or rock, to open close,
to greet as friend or treat as foes,
to spur ambitions transient, blind.
Spun cause, effect, as they unwind
may opportunity disclose
to seek behind rind surface shows,
discover meaning silver-lined...
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Concord
Reconciled by death's mild hand, that giving
Peace gives wisdom, not more strong than mild,
Love beholds them, each without misgiving
Reconciled.
Each on earth alike of earth reviled,
Hated, feared, derided, and forgiving,
Each alike had heaven at heart, and smiled.
Both bright names, clothed round with man's thanksgiving,
Shine, twin stars above the storm-drifts piled,
Dead and deathless, whom we saw not living
Reconciled.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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You Were Once A Girl
i remember you: once a girl whose hands
hold on to mine in school,
my first year of teaching then
in the university and your mother
was there teaching too,
how time must have passed!
now you are a lawyer
pregnant on your second child
and defending a case
of your classmate in my court.
how time must have passed!
swiftly, so swiftly like a bird
falling out from the edge of the horizon
like a gaze falling out from the seams
of our visions
how time must have passed!
yet i feel nothing that i have to worry
there is no one in my house to stay
when my time to leave shall finally come.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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