Country Towns
Country towns, with your willows and squares,
And farmers bouncing on barrel mares
To public houses of yellow wood
With '1860' over their doors,
And that mysterious race of Hogans
Which always keeps the General Stores….
At the School of Arts, a broadsheet lies
Sprayed with the sarcasm of flies:
'The Great Golightly Family
Of Entertainers Here To-night'–
Dated a year and a half ago,
But left there, less from carelessness
Than from a wish to seem polite.
Verandas baked with musky sleep,
Mulberry faces dozing deep,
And dogs that lick the sunlight up
Like paste of gold – or, roused in vain
By far, mysterious buggy-wheels,
Lower their ears, and drowse again….
Country towns with your schooner bees,
And locusts burnt in the pepper-trees,
Drown me with syrups, arch your boughs,
Find me a bench, and let me snore,
Till, charged with ale and unconcern,
I'll think it's noon at half-past four!
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Related quotes
Country Aint Country
He was raised on a tractor in overalls and boots
Been to college and then law school since leaving his roots
Came home in a lexus,he left in a ford
Country aint country no more
He told his daddy catch up with the times
He said now a days people trade heifers online
Dad aint selling deals with a handshake like before
Country aint country no more
No,country aint country no more
The back forty was sold to make up for hard times
Then sold by the half acre lot overnight
The houses went up and the trees were cut down
And there went the finest deer hunting around
Lord everyones locking their doors
cause country aint country no more
Now his dad sits in traffic looking round at the change
Watching crews turn the county road into four lanes
The old sunday drive has turned into a chore
Country aint country no more
Lord,country aint country no more
The back forty was sold to make up for hard times
Then sold by the half acre lot overnight
The houses went up and the trees were cut down
And there went the finest deer hunting around
Lord everyones locking their doors
cause country aint country no more
Theres no turning back
And you just cant ignore
That country aint country no more
No,country aint country no more
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mac
In every little country place, all up and down the land,
From ageing cradles of the race to Never-Never Land
From the towns about the cities to the little towns out back,
There dwells a man of all trades; and he's mostly known as 'Mac.'
He's dwelt there since the Lord knows when and never seems to die;
And everybody, now and then, when his present job is thro' -
And twenty other little jobs that he has still to do.
A plumbing job, a painting job, a bit of fence to mend;
They want him in a hurry; and he's everybody's friend.
Kettle-mending, carpentry, a bit of scrub to cut -
There's nothing comes amiss to him - a door that will not shut,
A safe that will not open, or a roof that hangs askew,
A plough to mend, a pump to tend - there's nothing he can't do.
He has never learned a single trade, yet somehow has the knack;
And, no matter what the trouble is, it's safe to send for 'Mac.'
He never makes much money, yet he never seems to care,
Tho' a dozen jobs await him, he has heaps of time to spare -
A friendly yarn, a cup of tea, a piece of sage advice,
He's willing for them every day, and never counts the price
Of half an hour or half a day spent in a neighbor's need.
He sells his toil, but not his time. For what is time, indeed,
Save for a man to labor in just as he feels inclined?
So, if Smith's job amuses him, Brown's job can lag behind.
In every little country place he's known, or once was known,
Ere the urge that men call Progress claimed the broad earth for its own,
When man found pride in labor and the cunning of his hand,
Nor set a price in money on the arts he could command.
And many a little country place with pride today can show
Some sturdy structure 'built by 'Mac' nigh fifty year ago.'
Oh, they jerry-built their palaces; but many a stout bush shack
Shall stand to honor workmanship of that proud workman, 'Mac.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Ballad Of Refreshment
The lady stood at the station bar,
(Three currants in a bun)
And oh she was proud, as ladies are.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
For a weekly wage she was standing there,
(Three currants in a bun)
With a prominent bust and light gold hair.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
The express came in at half-past two,
(Three currants in a bun)
And there lighted a man in the navy blue.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A stout sea-captain he was, I ween.
(Three currants in a bun)
Much travel had made him very keen.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A sober man and steady was he.
(Three currants in a bun)
He called not for brandy, but called for tea.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
'Now something to eat, for the train is late.'
(Three currants in a bun)
She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
He left the bun, and he left the tea,
(Three currants in a bun)
She charged him a shilling and let him be,
And the train went on at a quarter to three.
(And the bun is old and weary.)
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Half The World
Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
Half the world hates
What half the world does every day
Half the world waits
While half gets on with it anyway
Half the world lives
Half the world makes
Half the world gives
While the other half takes
Half the world is
Half the world was
Half the world thinks
While the other half does
Half the world talks
With half a mind on what they say
Half the world walks
With half a mind to run away
Half the world lies
Half the world learns
Half the world flies
As half the world turns
Half the world cries
Half the world laughs
Half the world tries
To be the other half
Half of us divided like a torn-up photograph half of us are
Trying to reach the other half
Half the world cares
While half the world is wasting the day
Half the world shares
While half the world is stealing away
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Yellow School Bus
The yellow school bus with the black wheels took sick children to school each day.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was driven whether or not the sky was gray.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels went pass three streets and up a hill.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was driven whether sunny or chilled.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels always brought a smile to little kids face.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was filled with love and filled with grace.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels kept breathing until that final breath.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was painted red with blood and death.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels and the little sick children were all of friends.
But the now dead children will never take a ride in the yellow school bus again.
poem by RaShawn Ince
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A Drowsy Day
THE air is dark, the sky is gray,
The misty shadows come and go,
And here within my dusky room
Each chair looks ghostly in the gloom.
Outside the rain falls cold and slow —
Half-stinging drops, half-blinding spray.
Each slightest sound is magnified,
For drowsy quiet holds her reign;
The burnt stick in the fireplace breaks,
The nodding cat with start awakes,
And then to sleep drops off again,
Unheeding Towser at her side.
I look far out across the lawn,
Where huddled stand the silly sheep;
My work lies idle at my hands,
My thoughts fly out like scattered strands
Of thread, and on the verge of sleep—
Still half awake — I dream and yawn.
What spirits rise before my eyes!
How various of kind and form!
Sweet memories of days long past,
The dreams of youth that could not last,
Each smiling calm, each raging storm,
That swept across my early skies.
Half seen, the bare, gaunt-fingered boughs
Before my window sweep and sway,
And chafe in tortures of unrest.
My chin sinks down upon my breast;
I cannot work on such a day,
But only sit and dream and drowse.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Small Town U.S.A
Pizza parlors,
muffler shops
7 Elevens
and I-hops
Boarded windows,
shuttered stores
Cracked windows,
unlocked doors
Dry cleaners,
Laundromats
Empty motels
Vacant flats
One street towns
No traffic lights
No city sounds
Few family fights
Friendly dogs
Friendlier people
Highest thing
Grey slate steeple
Houses with porches
rustic family farm
Weather vanes on roofs
Old American charm
Grain silos
Rusty water tower
Windmills
Water power
Sincere supplication
Sunday school prayer
Organ music, seeping out
Rising into clover scented air
Small town America
Barns and bales of hay
People still say “Good Morning”…in
…Small town U.S.A…
poem by David Whalen
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North Country
North Country, filled with gesturing wood,
With trees that fence, like archers' volleys,
The flanks of hidden valleys
Where nothing's left to hide
But verticals and perpendiculars,
Like rain gone wooden, fixed in falling,
Or fingers blindly feeling
For what nobody cares;
Or trunks of pewter, bangled by greedy death,
Stuck with black staghorns, quietly sucking,
And trees whose boughs go seeking,
And tress like broken teeth
With smoky antlers broken in the sky;
Or trunks that lie grotesquely rigid,
Like bodies blank and wretched
After a fool's battue,
As if they've secret ways of dying here
And secret places for their anguish
When boughs at last relinquish
Their clench of blowing air
But this gaunt country, filled with mills and saws,
With butter-works and railway-stations
And public institutions,
And scornful rumps of cows,
North Country, filled with gesturing wood–
Timber's the end it gives to branches,
Cut off in cubic inches,
Dripping red with blood.
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Bush Goblins
The Locust drones along the drowsy noon,
The brown bee lingers in the yellow foam,
Blossom on blossom searching deep, but soon
Slides heavy-wingèd home.
The vacant air, half visible, complains
All overburdened of its noontide hour;
Sound after sound in heavy silence wanes
At the strong sun’s burning power.
Let the strong sun burn down the barren plain
And scour the empty heaven, and twist the air
To filmiest flickerings, o’er us in vain
His hollow vault doth glare.
For us gnarled boughs and massive boles o’ershade,
And tall bulrushes guard us with green spears
From the grim noon; our dewy jewelled glade
Never a footstep nears.
Come feast with us; behold our fragrant store
Of candied locusts, that no longer drone
Through summer eves, but transmigrated, pour
Thin goblin monotone
Through eucalyptine stillness as we rouse
Our gnomy anthem to the answering trees,
While gold-eyed toad-guards of our hidden house
Croak full-fed choruses.
Come visit us; O follow till you find
In some green shade our secret banquetings,
Where brolgas dance, and, some great stem behind,
A hidden lyrebird sings.
Ask of the eaglehawk in the blue air,
Ask of the chattering parrot, he should tell;
Fat possum in the tree bole, furry bear,
Us beast and bird know well.
The silver lizard on the sun-baked stone,
The green-flecked tree-snake in his circle coiled,
Dreaming of evil, man, and man alone
Missed us, howe’er he toiled.
Come feast thou with us; ancient kings of all,
We are the mystery at the heart of noon,
Weird unseen chucklers when long shadows fall
From the misleading moon.
We are the spirits of distorted trees;
We beckon down dim gullies, far astray,
Till lost, deep lost, the wild-eyed traveller sees
Dark at the heart of day.
And oh, we laughed about his last choked groans
Beside the water that he sought so long,
And oh, we danced about his clean-picked bones
To a gnomy undersong.
For all the day we chuckle and provoke
With mocking shapes and noises each bright hour,
But when dark even from his grave hath broke
Then are we lords of power.
poem by Henry Mackenzie Green
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In a Country
My love and I are inventing a country, which we
can already see taking shape, as if wheels were
passing through yellow mud. But there is a prob-
lem: if we put a river in the country, it will thaw
and begin flooding. If we put the river on the bor-
der, there will be trouble. If we forget about the
river, there will be no way out. There is already a
sky over that country, waiting for clouds or smoke.
Birds have flown into it, too. Each evening more
trees fill with their eyes, and what they see we can
never erase.
One day it was snowing heavily, and again we were
lying in bed, watching our country: we could
make out the wide river for the first time, blue and
moving. We seemed to be getting closer; we saw
our wheel tracks leading into it and curving out
of sight behind us. It looked like the land we had
left, some smoke in the distance, but I wasn't sure.
There were birds calling. The creaking of our
wheels. And as we entered that country, it felt as if
someone was touching our bare shoulders, lightly,
for the last time.
poem by Larry Levis
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Truth Are Lies.. Lies Are Truth..
speak your truth from your quivering lips
but also your lies comes through them..
your half lies are also your half truths
yet your half truths are also your half lies
what shall you talk about them if your thruth are your lies
and your lieas are your truths
then this world would be filled of noise
being lies and being the truth
until all of us will be lost
what to believe and follow
will it be the half lies
or the half truths?
which one is to choice
the truth is yours but also are the lies..
so let us all live with he truths and the lies
within our hearts within our minds
till we are lost in a maze of half lies and half truths
poem by Villiamor Calventas
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Tumbleweed Chalet.
There it was
A parafin coloured shack
All locked up and black.
Hidden amongst the trees.
A sort of don`t you see me.
But the river gave it
A mild reflection
And the fishermen
Were half-dozing
In the midday sun.
It`s the son of
Tumbleweed chalet.
Just like the old days.
I dreamt i was
A cowboy
Leaning on it`s broadwalk
Further on i went
Into the weeds.
Half a dozen ghost towns`
Strangled and forgotten please.
By council demand-
This land is private!
My feet fell through
Fallen canvas ceilings,
That lay upon the floor.
It`s the son
Of a tumbleweed chalet,
And maybe i am the valet
Or the wild cat
That darts in and out.
Half a broken gate
Leads to another
Ruin innate.
Punctured mattresses,
Cracked glass,
Daubed walls,
Turned over tables.
By council demand-
This land is private
And overrun!
poem by Peter Vealey
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Ballade Of The Dead Cities
The dust of Carthage and the dust
Of Babel on the desert wold,
The loves of Corinth, and the lust,
Orchomenos increased with gold;
The town of Jason, over-bold,
And Cherson, smitten in her prime -
What are they but a dream half-told?
Where are the cities of old time?
In towns that were a kingdom's trust,
In dim Atlantic forests' fold,
The marble wasteth to a crust,
The granite crumbles into mould;
O'er these--left nameless from of old -
As over Shinar's brick and slime,
One vast forgetfulness is roll'd -
Where are the cities of old time?
The lapse of ages, and the rust,
The fire, the frost, the waters cold,
Efface the evil and the just;
From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold,
To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd
Beneath the wave a dreamy chime
That echo'd from the mountain-hold, -
'Where are the cities of old time?'
ENVOY.
Prince, all thy towns and cities must
Decay as these, till all their crime,
And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust
Where are the cities of old time.
poem by Andrew Lang
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Half The World
Half the world lives,
Half the world makes,
Half the world gives
While the other half takes.
Half the world hates,
Half the world runs away,
Half the world's late,
Half the world praises the day.
Half the world is,
Half the world was,
Half the world thinks,
Half the world does.
Half the world lies,
Half the world burns,
Half the world cries
While the other half turns.
Half the world cares,
Half the world weeps,
Half the world shares,
Half the world keeps.
Half the world sings,
Half the world laughs,
Half the world brings,
Half the world tries to be the other half.
End.
What A Country!
For more than an era,
my Country relished the pains I suffer,
watching my banishment in alien lands.
When the vision is blurred by distance,
they spy me through the hole of a binocular,
and roar in peels of laughter;
one forty million of them relish my own holocaust.
Never had my country been like this before,
She had something called Heart,
teeming with humanity.
Now she ceases to be the country I knew.
Now she is all some decrepit rivers only,
some hamlets and towns,
here and there some vegetations;
Some houses, markets and on the grey meadows,
some people who just resemble humans.
Once my country throbbed with life,
My countrymen recited poems.
Now none thinks twice before banishing a poet,
Now at dead of night, the whole country feel free to send a poet to the gallows;
one hundred and fifty million of them,
derive a lucretian pleasure
out of a poet's execution.
Once the country knew how to love.
Now She has learnt violence and frowning.
Sharp swords at her disposal,deadly weapons
tucked into her waist, fatal explosives in hand,
no longer can She sing a song.
Over an age, in search of a country,
I've been ransacking the globe;
Without a wink of sleep, decade after decade,
In my maddening pursuit of a country.
Reaching on the edge of my own country,
I wait with arms outstretched for her.
Alack! I've heard them say:
If my country ever gets me in her grip,
She'll build my sepulchre there.
[Translated by Sujal Bhattacharya]
poem by Taslima Nasrin
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Family: The SMS-Messages Start...
It is still dark when we leave home - the
school gate is barely open; an hour and
a half before school starts a little boy
already there; out in the winter cold; then
a little girl is also left half an hour before
her school starts; in the afternoon he goes
to after-school; but she has to stay in the
school grounds; at two-forty-five the SMS-
messages start: Hi mom, what are you
doing? - I’m typing my love, and you? –
I’ve got nothing to do; - I know that’s
not true with all that maths and homework
tasks, yet I play along; I wish she were
here or already at home instead of at
school all alone; that was the choice I
made as a working mom; if I give up
my job I’ll never find one again – it’s
all about quotas and race and not expertise
– besides, it is my whole social life – if
only school did not end at two in the
afternoon and children were not left
all by themselves so soon…
poem by Margaret Alice
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A Song of Autumn
‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year,
When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,
When the boughs are yellow and sere?
Where are the old ones that once we had,
And when are the new ones near?
What shall we do for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year?’
‘Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
Can I say where the lost leaves veer
On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow,
When they drift through the dead-wood drear?
Girl! when the garlands of next year glow,
You may gather again, my dear—
But I go where the last year’s lost leaves go
At the falling of the year.’
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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After The Attack Where Some Children Died
and so they attack one dismal day
in Lanao del Norte and Maguindanao
some innocent towns
shooting in such a spree
the farmer who merely passed by
the child playing on the family yard
the wife cooking the breakfast for the day
they sprayed bullets on the houses
an old man lying there was hit
the widows wail in sadness
the children losing their fathers, these breadwinners of five or six
some are brave enough to tell that this must not be repeated
that the culprits must be charged (or be summarily beheaded)
and then today, i hear the MNLF leaders say
on tv that
they condemn the mass murder that
they ask their commanders on the field to stop the senseless killings
they tell the government that they will investigate
and if these men are found guilty
there shall be no pity
i spit my discontentment and for once in my life i use the word
SHIT!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Country people give me more than writers, and country places than towns.
quote by Leonard Alfred George Strong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eden in Winter
[Supposed to be chanted to some rude instrument at a modern fireplace]
Chant we the story now
Tho' in a house we sleep;
Tho' by a hearth of coals
Vigil to-night we keep.
Chant we the story now,
Of the vague love we knew
When I from out the sea
Rose to the feet of you.
Bird from the cliffs you came,
Flew thro' the snow to me,
Facing the icy blast
There by the icy sea.
How did I reach your feet?
Why should I — at the end
Hold out half-frozen hands
Dumbly to you my friend?
Ne'er had I woman seen,
Ne'er had I seen a flame.
There you piled fagots on,
Heat rose — the blast to tame.
There by the cave-door dark,
Comforting me you cried —
Wailed o'er my wounded knee,
Wept for my rock-torn side.
Up from the South I trailed —
Left regions fierce and fair!
Left all the jungle-trees,
Left the red tiger's lair.
Dream led, I scarce knew why,
Into your North I trod —
Ne'er had I known the snow,
Or the frost-blasted sod.
O how the flakes came down!
O how the fire burned high!
Strange thing to see he was,
Thro' his dry twigs would fly,
Creep there awhile and sleep —
Then wake and bark for fight —
Biting if I too near
Came to his eye so bright.
Then with a will you fed
Wood to his hungry tongue.
Then he did leap and sing —
Dancing the clouds among,
Turning the night to noon,
Stinging my eyes with light,
Making the snow retreat,
Making the cave-house bright.
There were dry fagots piled,
Nuts and dry leaves and roots,
Stores there of furs and hides,
Sweet-barks and grains and fruits.
There wrapped in fur we lay,
Half-burned, half-frozen still —
Ne'er will my soul forget
All the night's bitter chill.
We had not learned to speak,
I was to you a strange
Wolfling or wounded fawn,
Lost from his forest-range.
Thirsting for bloody meat,
Out at the dawn we went.
Weighed with our prey at eve,
Home-came we all forespent.
Comrades and hunters tried
Ere we were maid and man —
Not till the spring awoke
Laughter and speech began.
Whining like forest dogs,
Rustling like budding trees,
Bubbling like thawing springs,
Humming like little bees,
Crooning like Maytime tides,
Chattering parrot words,
Crying the panther's cry,
Chirping like mating birds —
Thus, thus, we learned to speak,
Who mid the snows were dumb,
Nor did we learn to kiss
Until the Spring had come.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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