This Mongrel Witnessed
From the shores of Danish harbors,
I live my Viking past.
And I hear the words of my father saying...
'You are not pure.
You are a mongrel.
You represent ancestors...
On your blood line that will last.'
And I listen to those speak of their ancestry,
As if they were as pure as they could be.
With most of them wishing they sat on thrones,
Depicting their connection with royalty.
But as for me I'll take being called a mongrel, .
A moor who is black or a more not without that.
It doesn't matter to me.
Since this 'mongrel' witnessed to be observed,
IS going to achieve with a doing done to be believed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mongrel Too
Here come the mountain, Here come the hill
Here come the valley and the Shoreline still
I know 'em well, know well
Mongrel, on the hard sell
With a ?, hot assed, inkwell
Lord, But I, I can't leave with the blues
Through endless days, and endless nights
Spare my creator, scream for my rights
? in the wishing well
Mongrel on the Hard sell, with a ?,
Hot assed, Inkwell
But I won't leave you with the blues no
Come down to ? (Wah-doo-day)
I'll buy you out
Gonna make you shake it Lord gonna make you shout
Gonna burn you gonna make you swell
Mongrel on a hard sell
with a ? hot assed inkwell Lord
But I can't leave you with the blues no
No no
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am A Bit Of A Mongrel
My full name is David Verdun Harris
and I am bit of a mongrel would you believe.
I have a lot of different blood
running through my veins.
My middle name is French
and there is English, Irish, Scots and Canadian
and even a bit of Spanish Gypsy from way back when.
That could account for my love of flamenco music.
I had an uncle who was a gunman
for the IRA in the 1920’s.
I am a distant relative
to one of the most decorated
American soldiers of the Vietnam War
who has 61 medals to his credit.
On the other side of the family
I am informed there are Admirals and a Lord
and not forgetting a famous cricketer
who is in the Guinness Book of Records
and played for the first English cricket team.
Then you come to me
a pretend Preacher and a wannabe writer.
Therefore, when I call myself a mongrel
that’s exactly what I am, a real mixed breed.
They may even enter me into Cruffs next year.
You never know I may even win a blue ribbon
in the mixed breed section.
4 March 2009
poem by David Harris
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Mongrel
Here come the mountains, here come the hills
Here come the valleys and Shoreline still
I've seen 'em all, I know 'em well
Mongrel, on the hard sell
With a fortrel polyester ink well hord, Hot assed, Inkwell Lord,
But I can't leave you with the blues no
Remember days, and endless nights
Spread my freedom and I scream for my rights
Thru empty days and endless nights
Spurned my creator, screamed for my rights
Child of green candles in the wishin well
Mongrel, Hard sell
With a fortrel polyester ink well hord, Hot assed, Inkwell Lord,
But I can't leave you with the blues no
Come down to ?, I'll buy you out
Gonna make you shake it Lord gonna make you shout
Gonna burn you gonna, make you swell
Mongrel, on a hard sell
With a fortrel polyester ink well hord, Hot assed, Inkwell Lord,
But I can't leave you with the blues no
No no
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Satiety is a mongrel that barks at the heels of plenty.
quote by Minna Antrim
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Story of Mongrel Grey
This is the story the stockman told
On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright;
The moon rose up like a globe of gold
And flooded the plain with her mellow light.
We watched the cattle till dawn of day
And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey.
He was a knock-about station hack,
Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat;
Ridden all day with a sore on his back,
Left all night with nothing to eat.
That was a matter of everyday
Normal occurrence with Mongrel Grey.
We might have sold him, but someone heard
He was bred out back on a flooded run,
Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird;
Midnight or midday were all as one --
In the flooded ground he would find his way;
Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey.
'Tis a trick, no doubt, that some horses learn;
When the floods are out they will splash along
In girth-deep water, and twist and turn
From hidden channel and billabong,
Never mistaking the road to go;
for a man may guess -- but the horses know.
I was camping out with my youngest son --
Bit of a nipper, just learnt to speak --
In an empty hut on the lower run,
Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek.
The youngster toddled about all day
And there with our horses was Mongrel Grey.
All of a sudden a flood came down,
At first a freshet of mountain rain,
Roaring and eddying, rank and brown,
Over the flats and across the plain.
Rising and rising -- at fall of night
Nothing but water appeared in sight!
'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out,
Even in daylight; for all around
Channels and billabongs twist about,
Stretching for miles in the flooded ground.
And to move seemed a hopeless thing to try
In the dark with the storm-water racing by.
I had to risk it. I heard a roar
As the wind swept down and the driving rain;
And the water rose till it reached the floor
Of our highest room; and 'twas very plain --
The way the torrent was sweeping down --
We must make for the highlands at once, or drown.
Off to the stable I splashed, and found
The horses shaking with cold and fright;
I led them down to the lower ground,
But never a yard would they swim that night!
They reared and snorted and turned away,
And none would face it but Mongrel Grey.
I bound the child on the horse's back,
And we started off, with a prayer to heaven,
Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black
For I knew that the instinct God has given
To prompt His creatures by night and day
Would guide the footsteps of Mongrel Grey.
He struck deep water at once and swam --
I swam beside him and held his mane --
Till we touched the bank of the broken dam
In shallow water; then off again,
Swimming in darkness across the flood,
Rank with the smell of the drifting mud.
He turned and twisted across and back,
Choosing the places to wade or swim,
Picking the safest and shortest track --
The blackest darkness was clear to him.
Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell?
The Lord that held him alone could tell!
He dodged the timber whene'er he could,
But timber brought us to grief at last;
I was partly stunned by a log of wood
That struck my head as it drifted past;
Then lost my grip of the brave old grey,
And in half a second he swept away.
I reached a tree, where I had to stay,
And did a perish for two days' hard;
And lived on water -- but Mongrel Grey,
He walked right into the homestead yard
At dawn next morning, and grazed around,
With the child strapped on to him safe and sound.
We keep him now for the wife to ride,
Nothing too good for him now, of course;
Never a whip on his fat old hide,
For she owes the child to that brave grey horse.
And not Old Tyson himself could pay
The purchase money of Mongrel Grey.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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I see music as one language. If one musical form eats its own tail, it dies. So it needs to be a mongrel, it needs to be hybridised.
From The Twelve
III
The lads have all gone to the wars
to serve in the Red Guard ~
to serve in the Red Guard ~
and risk their hot heads for the cause.
Hell and damnation,
life is such fun
with a ragged greatcoat
and a Jerry gun!
To smoke the nobs out of their holes
we’ll light a fire through all the world,
a bloody fire through all the world –
Lord, bless our souls!
XII
… On they march with sovereign tread…
‘Who else goes there? Come out! I said
come out!’ It is the wind and the red
flag plunging gaily at their head.
The frozen snow-drift looms in front.
‘Who’s in the drift! Come out! Come here!’
There’s only the homeless mongrel runt
limping wretchedly in the rear…
‘You mangy beast, out of the way
before you taste my bayonet.
Old mongrel world, clear off I say!
I’ll have your hide to sole my boot!
The shivering cur, the mongrel cur
bares his teeth like a hungry wolf,
droops his tail, but does not stir…
‘Hey answer, you there, show yourself.’
‘Who’s that waving the red flag?’
‘Try and see! It’s as dark as the tomb!’
‘Who’s that moving at a jog
trot, keeping to the back-street gloom?’
‘Don’t you worry ~ I’ll catch you yet;
better surrender to me alive!’
‘Come out, comrade, or you’ll regret
it ~ we’ll fire when I’ve counted five!’
Crack ~ crack ~ crack! But only the echo
answers from among the eaves…
The blizzard splits his seams, the snow
laughs wildly up the wirlwind’s sleeve…
Crack ~ crack ~ crack!
Crack ~ crack ~ crack!
… So they march with sovereign tread…
Behind them limps the hungry dog,
and wrapped in wild snow at their head
carrying a blood-red flag ~
soft-footed where the blizzard swirls,
invulnerable where bullets crossed ~
crowned with a crown of snowflake pearls,
a flowery diadem of frost,
ahead of them goes Jesus Christ.
poem by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok
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I have loved but one flag and I can not share that devotion and give affection to the mongrel banner invented for the League of Nations.
quote by Henry Cabot Lodge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Twelve
III
Our sons have gone
to serve the Reds
to serve the Reds
to risk their heads!
O bitter,bitter pain,
Sweet living!
A torn overcoat
an Austrian gun!
-To get the bourgeosie
We'll start a fire
a worldwide fire, and drench it
in blood-
The good Lord bless us!
-O you bitter bitterness,
boring boredom,
deadly boredom.
This is how I will
spend my time.
This is how I will
scratch my head,
munch on seeds,
some sunflower seeds,
play with my knife
play with my knife.
You bourgeosie, fly as a sparrow!
I'll drink your blood,
your warm blood, for love,
for dark-eyed love.
God, let this soul, your servant,
rest in peace.
Such boredom!
XII
... On they march with sovereign tread...
‘Who else goes there? Come out! I said
come out!’ It is the wind and the red
flag plunging gaily at their head.
The frozen snow-drift looms in front.
‘Who’s in the drift! Come out! Come here!’
There’s only the homeless mongrel runt
limping wretchedly in the rear ...
‘You mangy beast, out of the way
before you taste my bayonet.
Old mongrel world, clear off I say!
I’ll have your hide to sole my boot!
The shivering cur, the mongrel cur
bares his teeth like a hungry wolf,
droops his tail, but does not stir ...
‘Hey answer, you there, show yourself.’
‘Who’s that waving the red flag?’
‘Try and see! It’s as dark as the tomb!’
‘Who’s that moving at a jog
trot, keeping to the back-street gloom?’
‘Don’t you worry ~ I’ll catch you yet;
better surrender to me alive!’
‘Come out, comrade, or you’ll regret
it ~ we’ll fire when I’ve counted five!’
Crack ~ crack ~ crack! But only the echo
answers from among the eaves ...
The blizzard splits his seams, the snow
laughs wildly up the wirlwind’s sleeve ...
Crack ~ crack ~ crack!
Crack ~ crack ~ crack!
... So they march with sovereign tread ...
Behind them limps the hungry dog,
and wrapped in wild snow at their head
carrying a blood-red flag ~
soft-footed where the blizzard swirls,
invulnerable where bullets crossed ~
crowned with a crown of snowflake pearls,
a flowery diadem of frost,
ahead of them goes Jesus Christ.
poem by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok
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America, So Beautiful.
Why is America the beautiful,
So beautiful?
It's because of German Polkas, and beer.
It's because of Irish corned beef, and potatoes.
It's because of French wines, and escargot.
It's because of soul food, from the hood,
The kind you find in Big Momma's,
In Cathedral City California.
It's because of Mexican food,
And the Mariachi's that accompany it.
It's because of the Hawaiian Poi,
And the Alaskan, fish ice cream.
It's because of the Italian Operas,
And spaghetti and meat balls.
It's because of the English language,
Brought to America,
By the subjects of the king.
America is blue eyes,
America is green eyes,
America is black eyes,
America is brown eyes,
America is blond hair,
America is red hair,
America is black hair,
And my all time favorite,
America is brown hair.
America is Japanese sushi,
America is Chinese hot and spicy soup.
America is mountains,
Beautiful snow covered mountains,
Shining in the sun.
America is deserts,
Hot arid and unforgiving,
And filled with life.
America is forests,
That extend,
'From sea to shining sea.'
America is ingenuity,
Great minds, from all over the world,
Reach their great fruition,
In America.
Where they are free.
Why is America the beautiful,
So beautiful?
It's because America is a rainbow,
Red, white, black, yellow, brown,
And all the myriads of colors,
These main colors produce.
It's so cliche to say,
We are a melting pot.
I prefer to say, What the great Bill Murray said.
'We are a mongrel race.'
Yet nothing on God's green Earth,
Is more loyal, more faithful, more loving,
And more devoted,
Than the mongrel.
America the beautiful.
poem by Juan Olivarez
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That Jesus' Baby
'you know...
they buried that
Jesus' baby,
you know...
the one they found
in the dumpster,
down in the church cemetary
neath an unmarked stone...
the only ones
who came to mourn,
were three crows,
and two mongrel dogs...
the last prayer,
the falling rain! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Chasing A Spot In The Sun
Chasing a spot
in the Sun
Cars and Tail
The proverbial bone
or the hand
that once
fed it
Restless
Dog sleep
of
Dog years
of
Dog life
The barking up
wrong trees
Neither taken nor done
in
this mongrel mutt
not quite
out of the
woods yet
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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It Really Doesn't Matter
You say your ugly, i say it doesn't matter.
You say you have a dark past,
i say it doesn't matter.
You say theirs overwhelming responsibility,
i say it doesn't matter.
I don't believe in walking away when things get hard.
In fact they are my spark to continue my march.
Through thick and thin where to begin.
You say you don't have a way.
I say it doesn't matter.
You say that you cant give back what you would like.
I say it doesn't matter.
You say, you say oh it really doesn't matter,
I live one day at a time.
Choices will be made that will save the day
but hurt me financially.
It doesn't matter Choice will be made
that will set me back in my expectations.
It doesn't matter,
It really doesn't matter.
Its well worth it.
To see the beauty that
you have placed before me.
Oh how its worth it.
To settle down and not be looking to be found.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Gipsy Too
If they missed my face in Farmers’ Arms
When the landlord lit the lamp,
They would grin and say in their country way,
‘Oh! he’s down at the Gipsy camp!’
But they’d read of things in the Daily Mail
That the wild Australians do,
And I cared no day what the world might say,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
‘Oh! the Gipsy crowd are a mongrel lot,
‘And a thieving lot and sly!’
But I’d dined on fowls in the far-off south,
And a mongrel lot was I.
‘Oh! the Gipsy crowd are a roving gang,
‘And a sulky, silent crew!’
But they managed a smile and a word for me,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
And the old queen looked in my palm one day—
And a shrewd old dame was she:
‘My pretty young gent, you may say your say,
‘You may laugh your laugh at me;
‘But I’ll tell you the tale of your dead, dead past!’
And she told me all too true;
And she said that I’d die in a camp at last,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
And the young queen looked in my eyes that night,
In a nook where the hedge grew tall,
And the sky was swept and the stars were bright,
But her eyes had the sheen of all.
The spring was there, and the fields were fair,
And the world to my heart seemed new.
’Twas ‘A Romany lass to a Romany lad!’
But I came of the Gipsies too.
Now a Summer and Winter have gone between
And wide, wild oceans flow;
And they camp again by the sad old Thames,
Where the blackberry hedges grow.
’Twas a roving star on a land afar
That proved to a maid untrue,
But we’ll meet when they gather the Gipsy souls,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
poem by Henry Lawson
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In Exile, , ,
must poets live in exile?
strangers limping to the dance.
streetlights dancing on the lampshade,
thrown into the trash.
in conversations with rats,
sleeping with ghosts in empty buildings.
immigrants without papers,
pawning blood for a drink.
by fires on the fringe,
stirring the stew made of hope.
eyes blackened by the smoke,
laughing with small children.
painting revolution on sterile walls,
sharing bread with mongrel dogs.
lovers without a country,
homeless, going home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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It Has To Be Witnessed To Be Believed
There are those who choose to represent,
The best subservience that can be found around.
This is more noticeable in smaller towns...
Where people live with big city dreams.
And their minds have been conditioned,
To not achieve anything more than medocrity.
And expect even less from those chosen.
To show their blatant disrespect with flagrance.
It has to be witnessed to believed.
And when one speaks of the effects,
Of this atrociousness...
One becomes despised as if a tradition exposed,
Has been severely compromised.
Like the keeping of an unflushed toilet as a symbol,
Of achievement.
It has to be witnessed to be believed.
And walls are built to surround this filth,
To hide and keep those lies alive in the bowels...
Of these 'communities' unseen,
In the midst of manicured surfaces.
To allow the nourishment of maggots to come and go,
As they damn well please.
It has to be witnessed to be believed...
That such unconsciousness perceives,
This activity achieves a certain purpose.
'And what is that purpose? '
A control over a divine and global ignorance.
To keep those enriched with their wickedness.
With a show of total disregard for the Creator!
Agitating...
A massive appearance of Super Intelligent Beings
To descend!
Saving this planet from complete destruction,
By such mindless fools.
It has to be witnessed to be believed.
And the outcome will not be prolonged in debates.
To allow incompetent jovial jestures to compensate,
For one's lack of a conscious comprehension.
These 'folks' are above and beyond those plateaus!
It has to be witnessed to be believed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Those who oppose the novel most vociferously today are of the opinion that intermingling with a different culture will inevitably weaken and ruin their own. I am of the opposite opinion. The Satanic Verses celebrates hybridity, impurity, intermingling, the transformation that comes of new and unexpected combinations of human beings, cultures, ideas, politics, movies, songs. It rejoices in mongrelization and fears the absolutism of the Pure. Melange, hotchpotch, a bit of this and a bit of that is how newness enters the world. It is the great possibility that mass migration gives the world... The Satanic Verses is for change- by-fusion, change-by-conjoining. It is a love song to our mongrel selves.
quote by Salman Rushdie
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Jessica The Racist Beauty Model
You speak words
Words that pun a knife on the heart
You speak words
Words that destroy unity
You speak words
Words that kill the black generation
I sit and wonder
How proud your ancestors will be of you
that you have once again
Reflected the true hate that boils
In the blood veins of your family
But how cruel,
Because you re-declare a war
That you already defeated already
How disgusting of you
Travelling the world
With pride that you represent
The rainbow nation
But then you intimidate your country
And insult your publicity
All with just a single word
That signify racism to black african generation
And today
You have demoted your dignity
You have failed you success
And you shall never ever in my heart
Be a proud South African
And never will give you the respect you deserve
I know you do not care,
But just like you!
In that way I opt to make my ancestore very happy,
You failed
Yes! You failed South Africa
poem by Anele ''The African Son'' kaPotelwa
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Sylvia Plath writing in her journal, 23 Fitzroy Road, London, February 1963
7 a.m.
Beyond the bedpost
no mirage of glad husband
moving tall towards me with his English offer
of toast and marmalade,
a cup of tea.
He’s with another.
She has mongrel blood,
a Knightsbridge accent,
can turn a man into
a spinning top,
an arsonist in the house of marriage.
One day she’ll become
a book that my husband
has tired of reading.
I’ll go soon, far from
Massachusetts, Devon, London,
the zoo where my selves are caged,
venomous snake,
sacrificial lamb,
sleepless monkey examining its fleas.
Outside snowflakes fall,
drafts of a poem torn to bits.
In the night sky
I see the Zoo-keeper.
From his starlit belt
important keys hang.
He moves towards me,
I towards him.
We’ll embrace
where it’s black.
poem by Peter Bakowski
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