An Apology For My Son To His Master, For Not Bringing An Exercise On The Coronation Day.
Why are we Scholars plagu'd to write,
On Days devoted to Delight?
In Honour of the King, I'd play
Upon his Coronation Day:
But as for Loyalty in Rhyme,
Defer that to another Time.
Now to excuse this to my Master--
(This Want of Rhyme's a sad Disaster)
Sir, we confess you take great Pains,
And break your own, to mend our Brains.
You strive to make us learn'd, and wise;
But to what End? -- We shall not rise:
In vain should at Preferment aim,
Whilst Strangers make their happier Claim.
Why should we labour to excel,
Doom'd in Obscurity to dwell?
Then, since our Welfare gives you Pain,
(And yet your Toil may prove in vain)
I wish, for your, and for our Ease,
That all were Coronation Days.
poem by Mary Barber
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Related quotes
Psalm 39 part 2
v.4-7
C. M.
The vanity of man as mortal.
Teach me the measure of my days,
Thou Maker of my frame;
I would survey life's narrow space,
And learn how frail I am.
A span is all that we can boast,
An inch or two of time;
Man is but vanity and dust
In all his flower and prime.
See the vain race of mortals move
Like shadows o'er the plain;
They rage and strive, desire and love,
But all the noise is vain.
Some walk in honor's gaudy show,
Some dig for golden ore;
They toil for heirs, they know not who,
And straight are seen no more.
What should I wish or wait for, then,
From creatures earth and dust?
They make our expectations vain,
And disappoint our trust.
Now I forbid my carnal hope,
My fond desires recall;
I give my mortal interest up,
And make my God my all.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Days Go On and On
I play. I sing and write a rhyme.
These 3 things consume my time.
and my days go on and on.
I think. I dream and wake up tired.
These 3 things have got me wired
and my days go on and on.
I eat. I drink and watch my weight.
These 3 things can just frustrate
and my days go on and on.
I worry. I stew and then obsess.
These 3 things create a mess
and my days go on and on.
I weep. I laugh and then I swear.
These 3 things make me aware
that my days go on and on.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Ode to Friday
So many days throughout the year
Are cause for celebration.
Birthdays, Christmas, wedding days,
Anniversaries, a coronation.
They make life much more bearable.
Give us respite and great joy.
A chance to kick up our heels and rejoice,
Every girl and every boy.
But there's one day that gets overlooked.
A day that's quite unique.
That day is Friday! What a blessing it is,
That there's one at the end of each week!
poem by Dawn Ferrett
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This life
This life is full of pain
But you can not buy it again
A lot of days have not been in vain
But only feeling pain
We don't even have time to rhyme
This life is like a game
And it is full of shame
Anything we can do its just lame
And we don't have any other ways of being fame
Because you don't allow us to claim
We are not treated faire
But we can't tell our weakness
We can't even mind our business
Because we are far from humbleness
Why do you say that we are caress?
But it just because of our shyness
We just stay quite
But we know that we can we can fight against
Can't you just give us time to rest?
Because we have tried our best
Even tough we are not the west
poem by Gomez Banda
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At a Locksmith's
Excuse me Sir!
excuse me please,
I've heard about your too much fame
you claim to make amazing keys
in perfect ease.
Now prove your worth
and pray tell me,
if there 's any master key
by which one can unlock the door-
of iron hearts...
poem by Shahzia Batool
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Sonnet- Sonnet Needs Rhymes
Can you a Sonnet write without its rhyme?
Now people want the modern verse that's free;
As ideas get stuck and cramped with time,
A Sonnet's like leafless branches of tree!
A Sonnet's great for men who rhyme too well;
Its beauty lives in metre, rhythm, rhyme;
Yet, it can never run into 'pel-mel';
The sonneteer can write in any clime.
Why abhor rhymes and not a Sonnet write?
Each genre has its rules to comply with;
Why sleep all day and stay awake all night?
Rhyme-play is done by Kindergarden kith!
Why ridicule something you can't do well,
Much things are done by practice, Sonnets tell.
poem by John Celes
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A matter of choice for M'Lady Indira
Some take their writing seriously
Whilst others are just dilettantes
Though my muse states imperiously,
that I must write the way she wants
The duties writers undertake
are manifold and various.
They have to write make no mistake
on subjects light or serious.
They know it is their duty to
deflate the self important fools.
Who in their ignorance pursue
a vain attempt to scrap all rules.
Discard the lessons of the past.
Insisting anything will do.
A fashion I am sure wont last
when readers can compare it to.
Fine verse that stood the test of time.
The glories of formality
by masters of meter and rhyme.
Which they left for posterity.
Though I concede all have the right,
to write in any way they choose.
To some free form is sheer delight.
All down to taste I must suppose.
26-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Moderns
To many reading modern poetry more interesting the meaning in the metaphors they seek to find
They feel it makes their brains work that much harder that it is good exercise for the mind
Rhyme for their great brains seems that bit too simple it does not test their thinking power at all
'Tis not a poem to them if it seems simple and the meaning in it easy to recall,
Yes rhyme for them it does seem that bit simple and deciphering it to them is not a test
The hidden meaning in the metaphors is something that does seem to try them best
Rhyme poetry to them is too simple and far too easy for to understand
It has to be blank verse with dozens of metaphors for their interest for to command
They look on rhyme and bush poets as inferior their preference in poets and poetry they make known
On literature they air their opinions like it is said to each their own
Their poetry evenings do seem quite exclusive rhyme poets to read they never do invite
Their unmusical lines that are laced with metaphors to each other they do recite
They do not like rhyme or they do not like bush poetry to them it is of another time
And in their poetry evenings there is no place for the men and the women of rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The World Is Not Worth Trusting
We’re born into this realm of sorrows just like that;
sorrows, sadness and pains exactly after birth.
Nature cheats on us, we not on Nature.
We envision, we seek, we tend to have,
but have not;
we strive, we labour hard just in vain,
but Nature has multipli’d our sorrows.
Some born great gladd’n,
for Nature has made ‘em so;
oth’rs, suff’ring they all reap,
not that they’re lazy but Nature make’ so.
Some rich suppress;
some broth’rs help not broth’rs
and the world becomes and comes in vain.
poem by Eche Ononukwe
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It's nice to be concise
I think it’s nice
To be concise
In everything you write
To be slightly terse
With all your verse
Is usually to write right
One should take their time
When composing rhyme
And try to keep it light
Maintain their meter
Try to make it neater
And never ever lose sight
Try not to doze
Whilst deep in prose
don’t write too late at night
Try not to swell your sonnet
Nor Try to dwell upon it
Because it could end up quite a fright
You don’t want to try to
End up with a haiku
Lord knows that wouldn’t be right…but
I just think it’s nice
To be concise…
In everything you write
poem by David Whalen
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L'Envoi
We've finished up the filthy war;
We've won what we were fighting for . . .
(Or have we? I don't know).
But anyway I have my wish:
I'm back upon the old Boul' Mich',
And how my heart's aglow!
Though in my coat's an empty sleeve,
Ah! do not think I ever grieve
(The pension for it, I believe,
Will keep me on the go).
So I'll be free to write and write,
And give my soul to sheer delight,
Till joy is almost pain;
To stand aloof and watch the throng,
And worship youth and sing my song
Of faith and hope again;
To seek for beauty everywhere,
To make each day a living prayer
That life may not be vain.
To sing of things that comfort me,
The joy in mother-eyes, the glee
Of little ones at play;
The blessed gentleness of trees,
Of old men dreaming at their ease
Soft afternoons away;
Of violets and swallows' wings,
Of wondrous, ordinary things
In words of every day.
To rhyme of rich and rainy nights,
When like a legion leap the lights
And take the town with gold;
Of taverns quaint where poets dream,
Of cafes gaudily agleam,
And vice that's overbold;
Of crystal shimmer, silver sheen,
Of soft and soothing nicotine,
Of wine that's rich and old,
Of gutters, chimney-tops and stars,
Of apple-carts and motor-cars,
The sordid and sublime;
Of wealth and misery that meet
In every great and little street,
Of glory and of grime;
Of all the living tide that flows --
From princes down to puppet shows --
I'll make my humble rhyme.
So if you like the sort of thing
Of which I also like to sing,
Just give my stuff a look;
And if you don't, no harm is done --
In writing it I've had my fun;
Good luck to you and every one --
And so
Here ends my book.
poem by Robert William Service
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Stella’s Birth-Day. 1724-5
As when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say she's past her dancing days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose:
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too sad a truth!
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit and beauty's queen,
He twenty-one and she fifteen,
No poet ever sweetly sung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
At fifty-six, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you?
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a subject fit for me?
Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes!
You must be grave and I be wise.
Our fate in vain we would oppose:
But I'll be still your friend in prose:
Esteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetic dress;
And if the Muse deny her aid
To have them sung, they may be said.
But, Stella, say, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst sat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turn'd to gray?
I'll ne'er believe a word they say.
'Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown;
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my sight;
And wrinkles undistinguished pass,
For I'm ashamed to use a glass:
And till I see them with these eyes,
Whoever says you have them, lies.
No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, sense and wit;
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than see.
O ne'er may Fortune show her spite,
To make me deaf, and mend my sight!
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Love In Vain
Long night, too long and lonely
Laying there asking myself
Hey, what's going on with you and me
How could I be so unaware
So blind I could not see
Knowing you'd be there
And always would be
Is anyone to blame but me
I've been so concerned with myself
Now I need you desperately
If you've fallen for another
Let's be honest with each other
Is there still a chance
And maybe hope to save our romance
We can't be strangers
You mean too much to me
I won't let this be a love in vain
Don't want the loneliness
Of just a memory
I don't want a love in vain
Just one more night, I want to spend with you
We'll let our hearts do the talking
Like we used to do
We'll make our first kiss last forever
Put the pieces back together
'Cause there's still a chance
There may be hope to save our romance
We can't be strangers
You mean to much to me
I won't let this be a love in vain, don't want a love in vain
I don't want the loneliness
Of just a memory
Don't want a love in vain
Oh, woman look what you've done to me
I'll show you how this love should be
Don't let it be a love in vain
Please don't, don't you know
You got my heart on a string
Don't let go
Don't let this love be a love in vain
We can't be strangers
It's not our destiny
I won't let this be a love in vain, don't want a love in vain
Don't want the loneliness
Of just a memory
Don't let this be a love in vain
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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King Of Thieves
I had forgotten all about the case of the three pins
They said I must be cracked
Until the brown paper parcel landed on my welcome mat
Even the pretty secretaries who wouldnt even
Let me hang my hat
All recognize my handwriting
And return to sender as a matter of fact
If I were you Id change my name again
They dont care what they do to you believe me
This is the coronation of the king of thieves
His occupation is the king of thieves
He can steal more than you can save
You can take him on, but youre not that brave
Ill tell your fortune in a minute or two
I might even tell you what comes next
The moguls want a human sacrifice
And look at that girl, young hungry and perplexed
They took away the best years of her life
Ah but its all in good fun
And if you kept you nose clean
You can laugh now at the caring things theyve done
Ill write this story down, but youll never guess the
Final twist
Blow the whistle on the whole design
As they find my name on that fatal mailing list
I hear the clatter of a typewriter
Another rookie eating up the reams
I think its time to place my feet under the desk
And put my mark on another mans dreams
This is the coronation of the king of thieves
And look at that girl
Look at that girl
Look at that girl
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Arctic Song
The days get older
The shadows colder
The seasons pause in vain
And in the north
We sit until
The sun won't rise again
The sun won't rise again, my love
The sun won't rise again
For thirty days and thirty nights
And fallow fall the sane
I spoke it once and will refrain
The sun won't rise again
We feel the frost
We feel the bite
These nights of endless pain
And once upon a time
We know
The sun will rise again
The sun won't rise again, my love
The sun won't rise again
For thirty days and thirty nights
We'll sufer through this bane
I spoke it twice, and will refrain
The sun won't rise again
And on that morn
Oh, breaking dawn
We'll let ourselves retain
Those thoughts of night
The quietude
Till the sun won't rise again
poem by Liz Annson
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On The Consequences Of Happy Marriages
Hail happy pair from whom such raptures rise,
On whom I gaze with pleasure and surprize;
From thy bright rays the gloom of strife is driven,
For all the smiles of mutual love are Heaven.
Thrice happy pair! no earthly joys excel
Thy peaceful state; there constant pleasures dwell,
Which cheer the mind and elevate the soul,
Whilst discord sinks beneath their soft control.
The blaze of zeal extends from breast to breast,
While Heaven supplies each innocent request;
And lo! what fond regard their smiles reveal,
Attractive as the magnet to the steel.
Their peaceful life is all content and ease,
They with delight each other strive to please;
Each other's charms, they only can admire,
Whose bosoms burn with pure connubial fire.
Th' indelible vestige of unblemished love,
Must hence a guide to generations prove:
Though virtuous partners moulder in the tomb,
Their light may shine on ages yet to come.
With grateful tears their well-spent day shall close,
When death like evening calls them to repose;
Then mystic smiles may break from deep disguise,
Like Vesper's torch transpiring in the skies.
Like constellations still their works may shine,
In virtue's unextinguished blaze divine;
Happy are they whose race shall end the same--
Sweeter than odours is a virtuous name.
Such is the transcript of unfading grace,
[illegible] eflecting lustre on a future race.
[illegible] virtuous on this line delight to tread,
[illegible] magnify the honors of the dead--
Who like a Phoenix did not burn in vain,
Incinerated to revive again;
From whose exalted urn young love shall rise,
Exulting from a funeral sacrifice.
poem by George Moses Horton
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The Sun Will Rise Again
I know the sun will rise again
I saw the sun set on my dream
I saw myself toil in vain
I saw my tears flow like a stream
But I know the sun will rise again
I know the sun will rise again
The other day I was a hero
Yet today I feel the pain
As I wind down to zero
But I know the sun will rise again
I am lost in this stormy rain
Tossed by fierce winds day after day
My strength the storm has drain
But I wait on hope's smiley ray
When the sun will rise again
I know the sun will rise again
I have groped in pitch darkness
Searching for answers, searching in vain
But I wait on the morning brightness
When the sun will rise again.
poem by Joseph Eli Atisu
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The Literal Pain
with due respect to
poetry
let me set aside
you,
to the comfort of
your rhyme,
let me try prose this
time
so i can make my point
clear,
dearly beloved,
let me confess to you
my enduring
pains, my inviolate
resolve
to go away far from
all that is
sweet and adorable,
let me bleed this time
in the most
accurate description
of a narrative
dearly beloved,
now you must
understand that pain
is not
a metaphor,
it is literal,
it is real.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Written for my Son ... at his First Putting on Breeches
WHAT is it our mamma's bewitches,
To plague us little boys with breeches ?
To tyrant Custom we must yield,
Whilst vanquish'd Reason flies the field.
Our legs must suffer by ligation,
To keep the blood from circulation ;
And then our feet, tho' young and tender,
We to the shoemaker's surrender ;
Who often makes our shoes so strait,
Our growing feet they cramp and fret ;
Whilst, with contrivance most profound,
Across our insteps we are bound ;
Which is the cause, I make no doubt,
Why thousands suffer in the gout.
Our wiser ancestors wore brogues,
Before the surgeons brib'd these rogues,
With narrow toes, and heels like pegs,
To help to make us break our legs.
Then, ere we know to use our fists,
Our mothers closely bind our wrists ;
And never think our cloaths are neat,
Till they're so tight we cannot eat.
And, to increase our other pains,
The hatband helps to cramp our brains.
The cravat finishes the work,
Like bowstring sent from the Grand Turk.
Thus dress, that should prolong our date,
Is made to hasten on our fate.
Fair privilege of nobler natures,
To be more plagu'd than other creatures !
The wild inhabitants of air
Are cloath'd by heav'n with wondrous care :
Their beauteous, well-compacted feathers
Are coats of mail against all weathers ;
Enamell'd, to delight the eye ;
Gay as the bow that decks the sky.
The beasts are cloath'd with beauteous skins :
The fishes arm'd with scales and fins ;
Whose lustre lends the sailor light,
When all the stars are hid in night.
O were our dress contriv'd like these,
For use, for ornament, and ease !
Man only seems to sorrow born,
Naked, defenceless, and forlorn.
Yet we have Reason to supply
What nature did to man deny :
Weak Viceroy ! Who thy pow'r will own,
When Custom has usurp'd thy throne ?
In vain did I appeal to thee,
Ere I would wear his livery ;
Who, in defiance of thy rules,
Delights to make us act like fools.
O'er human race the tyrant reigns,
And binds them in eternal chains.
We yield to his despotic sway,
The only monarch all obey.
poem by Mary Barber
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A Woman's Honour
Love bade me hope, and I obeyed;
Phyllis continued still unkind:
Then you may e'en despair, he said,
In vain I strive to change her mind.
Honour's got in, and keeps her heart,
Durst he but venture once abroad,
In my own right I'd take your part,
And show myself the mightier God.
This huffing Honour domineers
In breasts alone where he has place:
But if true generous Love apppears,
The hector dares not show his face.
Let me still languish and complain,
Be most unhumanly denied:
I have some pleasure in my pain,
She can have none with all her pride.
I fall a sacrifice to Love,
She lives a wretch for Honour's sake;
Whose tyrant does most cruel prove,
The difference is not hard to make.
Consider real Honour then,
You'll find hers cannot be the same;
'Tis noble confidence in men,
In women, mean, mistrustful shame.
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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