Victimisation as threat and control
She’s the village’s Force For Good –
or that’s the flag she sails under;
news of distant earthquakes, floods,
famines, ethnic or other massacres
are her stoke-up calls…
she’ll soon be knocking at your door,
or coming up to speak to you at the WI
or after church…
knowing that you know she knows
you know the details of just how fortunate
she thinks herself, to have survived
that terrible childhood (details vague) :
so by extension, you should know yourself, and show yourself,
fortunate too… by giving to the latest cause…
Have her in for drinks, and her roving eye
will spot that electric towel rail you don’t now use
which would be just the thing which would alleviate
the widow Smith… Though, should that widow Smith
dare to grumble to her – and she’d sharply (with a smile)
remind her, aren’t we lucky, dear, we’ve got
the Social Services here, while they, poor things…
How she delights in, praises, our new outfits
which we bought last week in town!
We don’t need to be told what follows
as the night the day – we should have
a still-smart something to pass on to her…
though I’ve yet to see an African
caught on TV wearing my old Top Shop number…
Sometimes, husbands take the mickey..
‘How is it that now we no longer hear
about the Burmese tragedy, Martha, now
the orphans of Darfur are in the news? ’…and
in private, joke to us about calling in Miss Marple
to root out the village emotional blackmailer…
The one house in the village and the largest
is the one she least often calls upon,
and that only in the afternoon
when the housekeeper’s in, but the owner’s
still at work: Alan was a kid to five adoptive families,
three of whom were good… now he’s the owner
of a large industrial firm whose workers love him…
At their first meeting, when she tried
her own pathetic story, his curt
‘Oh get over it..’ has sealed their subsequent relationship…
Somehow, I’ve never warmed to her
since that first visit, when she stood
dead-heading the geraniums around the door
while exchanging pleasantries…
and left me steeped in self-reproach
and communal inadequacy…
Chaucer, with his perceptive and discerning eye
would have spotted this Martha of the many causes…
‘Methinks she has the more concern
for Mercie’s name, than for the human soul…’
*
He’s the spokesman for his faith – although
faith is a word that seldom elevates his speech;
perceived injustice is his line: it’s rather, our bad faith;
a speech about immigrants by one authority,
made only a day before
the figures of illegals published by another…
conspiracy against his community is his suspicion
(while his community just get on with it…)
extreme cynics who know their extremist radicals
deconstruct his subtext to be saying,
we’re only a poor community, but
we wire up terror like the best –
you have been warned..
and we, the tolerant and good-hearted,
forbear from that sharp riposte
which would have him foaming at the mike…
if you feel so badly picked upon, so disapprove
of your adopted country and its morals,
that you desire to meddle in its politics and laws –
then why not return to the country you were born in,
whose messy state, you and yours have failed to deal with…?
Of course, he can’t, because it’s just too dangerous…
Back hopme, they’re just him, but on the ‘other’ side…
Oh perfidious Albion! Have you forgotten
your imperialist and sharply-ordered past?
The guilt of centuries lies heavy on thy heart –
well, at least as far back, as the Danish invasions
of massacre, rape and loot; the marauding Jutes before them,
the migrating Saxons before that; and the Roman soldiers,
law-givers and architects and builders, before them…?
Yes, it’s time for an Emotional Blackmail Studies
Department in the local Poly… there should be
no lack of smiling lecturers, to remind us
how fortunate you are, mate, to be educated…
I’m thinking of applying
for a lecturer’s post, myself…
wait til the appointments board
hear my personal cv of injustice done,
childhood without care or opportunity,
the bruises bravely borne…
a triumph of self-education out of the gutter…
and if they turn me down…
well, they know what’s coming to them…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Oh to be in England...
[The names and some of the details of this report have been changed to protect the identities of the persons involved - Ed.]
Yes I'm afraid so.
Mr Smith and Mrs Jones from down the road.
Five years now.
It's Mr Jones I feel sorry for.
Though from what I hear...
But it's Mrs Smith who really miffs me.
We're supposed to be friends, I thought.
Not a word, not a hint, these five years.
I really feel - betrayed.
Of course the men and the women here have a different take on this.
Well you'd expect it, considering.
(My Jack laughed like a drain when he read the details.
Went out early to buy the News of the Screws he calls it.)
I think the bastard's envious.
Not a word, not a hint.
Even the vicar's wife didn't know.
At least Catholics have confession.
Though of course their parish priests don't have wives...
I'm a historian. Was. The village well,
the parish pump, market day, after church, coffee mornings...
'Social cohesion in rural communities'.
I B.A.- ed on it.
Say what you like,
gossip keeps a community together.
Five years.
No, I'm not going round to see her.
I feel - betrayed...
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Widow of Massacre
Some said she lost,
None said she crossed,
Nothing was known clear
Something about her was fear.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
If asked, she never say,
because witness you can pay,
She lost hee husband,
Then lost her hand.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
Behind her, there're stories,
Behind stories, there's worries,
Her village was ambushed,
And in bullets, washed.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
She survived the claws of wild,
After death of her single child,
Finally she ran to this village,
Where we paid her homage.
Everything, though said
She's a widow of massacre.
poem by Buyunde Acura Sylivester
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Drowned Out.
Liverpool corporation, water they sought,
community, by surprise they were caught.
Not really consulted,
outrage and protest resulted.
Voices and banners went to the ‘foreign' council,
however, project goes ahead through ' private members bill '
Worries fall on deaf ears,
only to confirm worst fears.
Workers came to start their plan,
nothing could stop the dam.
Water is ‘required'
not true it transpired.
Not strong enough voice in their land,
their village was dammed.
Told to 'leave their dead, or exhume,
the water will be coming soon '
Open the graves,
or lose to the waves.
The injustice of it all,
a tragedy to befall.
An horrendous and heartfelt plight,
unfair, one-sided fight.
Generations split and scattered,
the corporation, water is all that mattered.
Profit for big business,
the little man is powerless.
Water now covers, village no more,
two things for sure.
The people never had the last word,
and the chapel bell will never again be heard......
27/03/06 NP
poem by Guy Lipmore
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I miss my childhood
I miss my childhood everyday
This missing increases day by day
I miss those days of happiness
which were full of joy and naughtiness
I miss my grandpa's magnificent love
I miss my grandma's food serve
I miss my village and my darling home
Now I am sad and alone
I was used to go garden daily evening
where I see the day changing
I play their with my friends
who were perfect in that and were legends
I miss stealing of mango from trees
I miss those mountainy friendly trees
I miss play of hide and seek
we hide on guava's great peak
I miss my fields and ponds
I miss that sweet smell of my lands
I miss the scolds of elders
I miss my village builders
I miss my grandpa's old shoulders
I miss my village's brave soldiers
I miss my cow's sweet milk
I miss my cranky and playful tricks
No one can return my childhood
And that hunt for fruits in woods
I have left my childhood very far
But I need life like that with no bar
I am hungry for that love of village
my hunger becomes more with age
In this world of stress and worries
I want back my childhood glories
Life is such a name
That plays with everyone, a different game
But in every game there is some hopeful ray
I miss my childhood everyday.
(27 march 2010, Lucknow)
poem by Shashank Dwivedi
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a village in Iberia
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else? ”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I need of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Village
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else? ”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I needed of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fortunate Son
Some folks are born
Made to wave that flag
Ooh that red, white 'n blue
And when they play
'Hail to the Cheif'
Ooh they point the cannon at you, lord
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no fortunate son
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no fortunate one, no
Some folks are born
Silver spoon in hand
Lord don't they help themselves?
And when the taxman
Knocks on their door
Ooh the house looks like a rummage sale, yeah
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no fortunate son
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no millionaires son, no, no
Some folks are born
Starspangled eyes
Ooh they send you out to war
And when Australia asks
'How much do we get?'
Ooh they just ask for more and more and more and more and more and...
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no millionaires son, no
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no fortunate one, one, one
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no CIA son, no
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no fortunate son, son, son
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fortunate Son
Some folks are born made to wave the flag
Ooh, they're red, white, and blue
And when the band plays hail to the chief
Ooh, they point the cannon at you, Lord
It ain't me
It ain't me
I ain't no senator's son, son, son
It ain't me
It ain't me
I ain't no fortunate one, no
Some folks are born silver spoon in hand
Lord, don't they help themselves now
And when the tax man comes to the door
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yes
It ain't me
It ain't me
I ain't no millionaire's son, son, son
It ain't me
It ain't me
I ain't no fortunate one, no, no
Some folks inherit star-spangled eyes
Ooh, they send you down to war
And when you ask 'em how much should we give
Ooh, they only answer more, more, more, more
It ain't me
It ain't me
I ain't no military son, son, son
It ain't me
It ain't me
I ain't no fortunate one
It ain't me
It ain't me
I ain't no fortunate one, one, one
It ain't me
It ain't me
I ain't no fortunate son, son, son
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bacharach / David Medley
(live)
Any day now
Any day now, I will hear you say,
Goodbye my love youll be on your way
And my wild, beautiful bird,
You will have flown, yeah!
Any day now, Ill be all alone
And you wont be around
Any day now, when your restless eyes meet someone new
To my sad surprise
And the blue shadows will fall all over town,
Any day now, you wont be around
Any love will let me down
I shouldnt want to keep you if you dont want to stay
And until youre gone forever
Ill be holding on for dear life, holding on
Holding you this way
And Im begging you to stay
Any day now, when the clock strikes go, youll go away
Then my tears will fall
And the blue shadows will fall all over town, yeah!
Any day now, you wont be around,
And love will let me down
Baby its you
Its not the way you smile
That touches my heart
Its not the way you kiss
That tears me apart
(*) many, many, many nights go by
I sit alone
At home I cry
Over you
What can I do
Cant help myself
cause baby its you
You should hear what theyre saying about you
They say youve never
Never, never been true
Oh! no! no!
It doesnt matter what they say
Im gonna love you any old way
What can I do
When its true
Dont want nobody
cause baby its you
Repeat (*)
Knowing when to leave
Go while the going is good
Knowing when to leave may be
The smartest thing anyone can learn, go!
Im afraid my heart isnt very smart
Fly while your still have your wings
Knowing when to leave wont let you reach
The point of no return, fly!
Foolish as it seems
I still have my dreams
So I keep hoping, day after day
As I wait for the man
And each night after night as I wish
For the love he can be
Though Im sure that no one can tell what are
Whishes and hopefully, somehow I fell
There is happiness waiting for me
When someone walks in your life
You just better be sure hes right
cause if hes found out, heartches and tears you must pay
Keep both of your eyes on the door
Never let it get out of sight
Just be prepared when the time has come
You arent away
Sail when the wind starts to blow
Bul like a fool I dont know when to leave
Make it easy on yourself
If you really love her
And there is nothing I can do
Dont try to spair my feelings
Just tell me that we are through
And make it easy on yourself
Make it easy on yourself...
cause breaking up is so very hard to do
If the way I hold you
Cant compare to her caress
No words of consolation will make me miss you less
My darling... if this is goodbye
I just know I want to cry...
So run to her before you start crying too
And make it easy on yourself...
Make it easy on yourself...
cause breaking up is so very hard to do
And make it easy on yourself
Make it easy on yourself, easy on yourself
Cause breaking up is so very hard to do
(theres) always something
There to remind me
If you should miss
The sweet and tender love we used to share
That we used to share
Just go back to the places where we used to go
And Ill be there
Oh, how can I forget you
When there is always something there to remind me
Always something there to remind me
I was born to love you
I will never be free
Youll always be a part of me
When there is always something there to remind me
Ill never fall in love again
Dont tell me what its all about
cause Ive been there and Im glad Im out
Out of those chains, those chains that blind you
That is why Im here to remind you
Here to remind you
Here to remind you
Here to remind you
What do you get when you fall in love?
You only get lies and pain and sorrow
So for at least until tomorrow
Ill never fall in love again
Oh, Ill never fall in love again
Walk on by
If you see me walking down the street
And I start to cry each time we meet
Walk on by, walk on by
Make believe you dont see the tears
Just let me breathe in private
cause each time I see you I break down and cry
Walk on by
I just cant get over losing you
So if I should seem broken and blue
Walk on by, walk on by
Foolish pride thats all that I have left
So let me have the tears and the sadness you gave me
When you said good-bye
Walk on by, by
Do you know the way to san jose
Do you know the way to san jose?
Ive been away so long
I may go wrong and lose my way
Do you know the way to san jose?
Im going back to find some place of mind san jose
L.a. is a great big freeway
Put a $100 down and buy a car
In a week, maybe two theyll make you a star
Weeks turn into years, that quick they pass
And all the stars there never were
Are parking cars and punping gas
Ive got lots of friends in san jose
Cant wait to get back to san jose
Do you know the way to san jose?
song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Truth About The Good News
I AM thinking
i agree with what the wind is telling
that from afar
some good news are waiting
and i bloat myself with hope
feeling like cotton
soft and useful
the wind left
and i waited for days for the coming of good news
like a cure for instance
for loneliness
or a miracle for the healing of a friend
who is dying
beside me
hands clasped towards heaven
for the skies to listen
I am thinking that the wind may have simply pitied our situation
and lied
and will not come back and stop
for we will always
remind about him about the good news
I am thinking
there are times when out of pity the ones that come here
say words
that they do not mean
and then
i sit again holding the hands of the dying friend
giving him
the good news from the warmth of my hand
it does not speak of healing
i does not want to remember anything
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Are Dear to Us
Why old memories are so dear to us?
Why do we believe in it and trust?
Do we think we were truly associated/?
Was our action at that time stood related?
These all factors drive us to the conclusion
Some of them may find true inclusions
Some of them may speak very badly
We may rethink over it and feel sadly
It is just rewinding of film reel
You have only to recollect and feel
You may look fool and expect some pity
Yet you laughed it out on your ability
It is village, town and even your friends
They all played important part to make the ways to mend
You were afraid of loosing honor in village
As people were pardoning you because of age
You were doing all nonsense and were fearing parents outbursts
The joy was not to be there for long time or to last
It was some camouflage action that was saving you from backlash
These all incidences may occupy most of the mind and flash
Well it is all meant for great treasure
One may feel great about it and can’t measure
The happiness and joy enjoyed at that time
But now it resurfaces again and wonders you sometimes
Everybody may expect and wish the childhood to return
That happiness has stayed back without any concern
Now no one may remind about it and fire
You are sole judge to decide and offer any satire
It is nice to feel donkey in isolation
A term very appropriate in relation
One would wonder what would have happened!
If something was not done or should have been
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Lazarus
“No, Mary, there was nothing—not a word.
Nothing, and always nothing. Go again
Yourself, and he may listen—or at least
Look up at you, and let you see his eyes.
I might as well have been the sound of rain,
A wind among the cedars, or a bird;
Or nothing. Mary, make him look at you;
And even if he should say that we are nothing,
To know that you have heard him will be something.
And yet he loved us, and it was for love
The Master gave him back. Why did he wait
So long before he came? Why did he weep?
I thought he would be glad—and Lazarus—
To see us all again as he had left us—
All as it was, all as it was before.”
Mary, who felt her sister’s frightened arms
Like those of someone drowning who had seized her,
Fearing at last they were to fail and sink
Together in this fog-stricken sea of strangeness,
Fought sadly, with bereaved indignant eyes,
To find again the fading shores of home
That she had seen but now could see no longer
Now she could only gaze into the twilight,
And in the dimness know that he was there,
Like someone that was not. He who had been
Their brother, and was dead, now seemed alive
Only in death again—or worse than death;
For tombs at least, always until today,
Though sad were certain. There was nothing certain
For man or God in such a day as this;
For there they were alone, and there was he—
Alone; and somewhere out of Bethany,
The Master—who had come to them so late,
Only for love of them and then so slowly,
And was for their sake hunted now by men
Who feared Him as they feared no other prey—
For the world’s sake was hidden. “Better the tomb
For Lazarus than life, if this be life,”
She thought; and then to Martha, “No, my dear,”
She said aloud; “not as it was before.
Nothing is ever as it was before,
Where Time has been. Here there is more than Time;
And we that are so lonely and so far
From home, since he is with us here again,
Are farther now from him and from ourselves
Than we are from the stars. He will not speak
Until the spirit that is in him speaks;
And we must wait for all we are to know,
Or even to learn that we are not to know.
Martha, we are too near to this for knowledge,
And that is why it is that we must wait.
Our friends are coming if we call for them,
And there are covers we’ll put over him
To make him warmer. We are too young, perhaps,
To say that we know better what is best
Than he. We do not know how old he is.
If you remember what the Master said,
Try to believe that we need have no fear.
Let me, the selfish and the careless one,
Be housewife and a mother for tonight;
For I am not so fearful as you are,
And I was not so eager.”
Martha sank
Down at her sister’s feet and there sat watching
A flower that had a small familiar name
That was as old as memory, but was not
The name of what she saw now in its brief
And infinite mystery that so frightened her
That life became a terror. Tears again
Flooded her eyes and overflowed. “No, Mary,”
She murmured slowly, hating her own words
Before she heard them, “you are not so eager
To see our brother as we see him now;
Neither is he who gave him back to us.
I was to be the simple one, as always,
And this was all for me.” She stared again
Over among the trees where Lazarus,
Who seemed to be a man who was not there,
Might have been one more shadow among shadows,
If she had not remembered. Then she felt
The cool calm hands of Mary on her face,
And shivered, wondering if such hands were real.
“The Master loved you as he loved us all,
Martha; and you are saying only things
That children say when they have had no sleep.
Try somehow now to rest a little while;
You know that I am here, and that our friends
Are coming if I call.”
Martha at last
Arose, and went with Mary to the door,
Where they stood looking off at the same place,
And at the same shape that was always there
As if it would not ever move or speak,
And always would be there. “Mary, go now,
Before the dark that will be coming hides him.
I am afraid of him out there alone,
Unless I see him; and I have forgotten
What sleep is. Go now—make him look at you—
And I shall hear him if he stirs or whispers.
Go!—or I’ll scream and bring all Bethany
To come and make him speak. Make him say once
That he is glad, and God may say the rest.
Though He say I shall sleep, and sleep for ever,
I shall not care for that… Go!”
Mary, moving
Almost as if an angry child had pushed her,
Went forward a few steps; and having waited
As long as Martha’s eyes would look at hers,
Went forward a few more, and a few more;
And so, until she came to Lazarus,
Who crouched with his face hidden in his hands,
Like one that had no face. Before she spoke,
Feeling her sister’s eyes that were behind her
As if the door where Martha stood were now
As far from her as Egypt, Mary turned
Once more to see that she was there. Then, softly,
Fearing him not so much as wondering
What his first word might be, said, “Lazarus,
Forgive us if we seemed afraid of you;”
And having spoken, pitied her poor speech
That had so little seeming gladness in it,
So little comfort, and so little love.
There was no sign from him that he had heard,
Or that he knew that she was there, or cared
Whether she spoke to him again or died
There at his feet. “We love you, Lazarus,
And we are not afraid. The Master said
We need not be afraid. Will you not say
To me that you are glad? Look, Lazarus!
Look at my face, and see me. This is Mary.”
She found his hands and held them. They were cool,
Like hers, but they were not so calm as hers.
Through the white robes in which his friends had wrapped him
When he had groped out of that awful sleep,
She felt him trembling and she was afraid.
At last he sighed; and she prayed hungrily
To God that she might hear again the voice
Of Lazarus, whose hands were giving her now
The recognition of a living pressure
That was almost a language. When he spoke,
Only one word that she had waited for
Came from his lips, and that word was her name.
“I heard them saying, Mary, that he wept
Before I woke.” The words were low and shaken,
Yet Mary knew that he who uttered them
Was Lazarus; and that would be enough
Until there should be more… “Who made him come,
That he should weep for me?… Was it you, Mary?”
The questions held in his incredulous eyes
Were more than she would see. She looked away;
But she had felt them and should feel for ever,
She thought, their cold and lonely desperation
That had the bitterness of all cold things
That were not cruel. “I should have wept,” he said,
“If I had been the Master….”
Now she could feel
His hands above her hair—the same black hair
That once he made a jest of, praising it,
While Martha’s busy eyes had left their work
To flash with laughing envy. Nothing of that
Was to be theirs again; and such a thought
Was like the flying by of a quick bird
Seen through a shadowy doorway in the twilight.
For now she felt his hands upon her head,
Like weights of kindness: “I forgive you, Mary….
You did not know—Martha could not have known—
Only the Master knew…. Where is he now?
Yes, I remember. They came after him.
May the good God forgive him…. I forgive him.
I must; and I may know only from him
The burden of all this… Martha was here—
But I was not yet here. She was afraid….
Why did he do it, Mary? Was it—you?
Was it for you?… Where are the friends I saw?
Yes, I remember. They all went away.
I made them go away…. Where is he now?…
What do I see down there? Do I see Martha—
Down by the door?… I must have time for this.”
Lazarus looked about him fearfully,
And then again at Mary, who discovered
Awakening apprehension in his eyes,
And shivered at his feet. All she had feared
Was here; and only in the slow reproach
Of his forgiveness lived his gratitude.
Why had he asked if it was all for her
That he was here? And what had Martha meant?
Why had the Master waited? What was coming
To Lazarus, and to them, that had not come?
What had the Master seen before he came,
That he had come so late?
“Where is he, Mary?”
Lazarus asked again. “Where did he go?”
Once more he gazed about him, and once more
At Mary for an answer. “Have they found him?
Or did he go away because he wished
Never to look into my eyes again?…
That, I could understand…. Where is he, Mary?”
“I do not know,” she said. “Yet in my heart
I know that he is living, as you are living—
Living, and here. He is not far from us.
He will come back to us and find us all—
Lazarus, Martha, Mary—everything—
All as it was before. Martha said that.
And he said we were not to be afraid.”
Lazarus closed his eyes while on his face
A tortured adumbration of a smile
Flickered an instant. “All as it was before,”
He murmured wearily. “Martha said that;
And he said you were not to be afraid …
Not you… Not you… Why should you be afraid?
Give all your little fears, and Martha’s with them,
To me; and I will add them unto mine,
Like a few rain-drops to Gennesaret.”
“If you had frightened me in other ways,
Not willing it,” Mary said, “I should have known
You still for Lazarus. But who is this?
Tell me again that you are Lazarus;
And tell me if the Master gave to you
No sign of a new joy that shall be coming
To this house that he loved. Are you afraid?
Are you afraid, who have felt everything—
And seen…?”
But Lazarus only shook his head,
Staring with his bewildered shining eyes
Hard into Mary’s face. “I do not know,
Mary,” he said, after a long time.
“When I came back, I knew the Master’s eyes
Were looking into mine. I looked at his,
And there was more in them than I could see.
At first I could see nothing but his eyes;
Nothing else anywhere was to be seen—
Only his eyes. And they looked into mine—
Long into mine, Mary, as if he knew.”
Mary began to be afraid of words
As she had never been afraid before
Of loneliness or darkness, or of death,
But now she must have more of them or die:
“He cannot know that there is worse than death,”
She said. “And you…”
“Yes, there is worse than death.”
Said Lazarus; “and that was what he knew;
And that is what it was that I could see
This morning in his eyes. I was afraid,
But not as you are. There is worse than death,
Mary; and there is nothing that is good
For you in dying while you are still here.
Mary, never go back to that again.
You would not hear me if I told you more,
For I should say it only in a language
That you are not to learn by going back.
To be a child again is to go forward—
And that is much to know. Many grow old,
And fade, and go away, not knowing how much
That is to know. Mary, the night is coming,
And there will soon be darkness all around you.
Let us go down where Martha waits for us,
And let there be light shining in this house.”
He rose, but Mary would not let him go:
“Martha, when she came back from here, said only
That she heard nothing. And have you no more
For Mary now than you had then for Martha?
Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me?
Was Nothing all you found where you have been?
If that be so, what is there worse than that—
Or better—if that be so? And why should you,
With even our love, go the same dark road over?”
“I could not answer that, if that were so,”
Said Lazarus,—“not even if I were God.
Why should He care whether I came or stayed,
If that were so? Why should the Master weep—
For me, or for the world,—or save himself
Longer for nothing? And if that were so,
Why should a few years’ more mortality
Make him a fugitive where flight were needless,
Had he but held his peace and given his nod
To an old Law that would be new as any?
I cannot say the answer to all that;
Though I may say that he is not afraid,
And that it is not for the joy there is
In serving an eternal Ignorance
Of our futility that he is here.
Is that what you and Martha mean by Nothing?
Is that what you are fearing? If that be so,
There are more weeds than lentils in your garden.
And one whose weeds are laughing at his harvest
May as well have no garden; for not there
Shall he be gleaning the few bits and orts
Of life that are to save him. For my part,
I am again with you, here among shadows
That will not always be so dark as this;
Though now I see there’s yet an evil in me
That made me let you be afraid of me.
No, I was not afraid—not even of life.
I thought I was…I must have time for this;
And all the time there is will not be long.
I cannot tell you what the Master saw
This morning in my eyes. I do not know.
I cannot yet say how far I have gone,
Or why it is that I am here again,
Or where the old road leads. I do not know.
I know that when I did come back, I saw
His eyes again among the trees and faces—
Only his eyes; and they looked into mine—
Long into mine—long, long, as if he knew.”
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What Happened To His Village
He was born just a short distance from Adelaide
And he could see the sea from his back door
And in his young days there were not many houses
But the years have brought great change to Semaphore.
His sea side Village has grown to a coastal suburb
And his old Homeplace has undergone great change
Where once were trees and paddocks now there's houses
A stranger to your old Homeplace seems strange.
What happened to the Village of his childhood
The paddock where he played in years ago
He only can refer now to his memories
Of peaceful place the Homeplace he once did know.
The cottage of his childhood gone forever
A doctor's surgery where once it stood
And not one know him he is now a stranger
In Semaphore the place of his boyhood.
But of the past he still has good old memories
Of his old Village how it used to be
And from the cottage by the wide brown paddock
Six hundred yards off he could see the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Final Good-Byes
as we say our final good-byes
I won't be fully there
I'll be thinking of time we shared
and what it'll be like without you
you're moving
it'll be sad to see
but it's nothing new
for it's plain to see
I liked you
you'd never tell
or see for that matter
how I truy feel
I thought there was something
special we shared
a bond a connection
that wouldn't rip us apart
but these are our final days
until we're far apart
I will treasure them always
you'll be in my heart
you reached me
for the first time I say
I'd trust you with my life
even on my last day
I'll think about you
and wonder 'What if...'
what if you never left
what if we could be
some think it's foolishness
but I'll never tell
how you made me feel
and how you made me melt
when I hear your voice
I always turn back to see
you smiling at me
and calling me near
some say you're normal
I say their wrong
you're something special
because you made me strong
I know we're just friends
but there's more there
I never saw it coming
but it's something I must bare
so good-bye
but not forever
time will tell
what was truly there
I will miss you
more than you know
it's the hardest thing to do
saying good-bye to you
these moments are going
as I wave you good-bye
it could be the last I see you
I'll miss you no lie.
poem by Katherine Bryce
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I Hear You Knockin
You went away and left me long time ago
And now youre knocking on my door
I hear you knocking
But you cant come in
I hear you knocking
Go back where youve been
I begged you not to go but you said goodbye
And now youre telling me all your lies
I hear you knocking
But you cant come in
I hear you knocking
Go back where youve been
Ahhh yeah
Let me hear it
Ohhooo woo
Oohh
You better get to your use-to-be
cause your kind of love aint good to me
I hear you knocking
But you cant come in
I hear you knocking
Go back where youve been
I told you way back in 52
That I would never go with you
I hear you knocking
But you cant come in
I hear you knocking
Go back where youve been
Yeah
Awwhoooo
song performed by by Bryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Village Green
Out in the country,
Far from all the soot and noise of the city,
Theres a village green.
Its been a long time
Since I last set eyes on the church with the steeple
Down by the village green.
twas there I met a girl called daisy
And kissed her by the old oak tree.
Although I loved my daisy, I saw fame,
And so I left the village green.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And now all the houses
Are rare antiquities.
American tourists flock to see the village green.
They snap their photographs and say gawd darn it,
Isnt it a pretty scene?
And daisys married tom the grocer boy,
And now he owns a grocery.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And I will return there,
And Ill and daisy,
And well sip tea, laugh,
And talk about the village green.
We will laugh and talk about the village green.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good News- Bad News
Bad news-I am driving along and a car is bearing down me from the rear.
It keeps coming.
Bad news-The car hits my little car at 60 miles an hour-bam!
Good news-I keep control of the car for a second or two
then the car begins to skid.
Bad news-The car skids, swerves and overturns, flipping, flipping.
The world outside the wind shield revolves upside down.
Bad news-Things go blank and I see water coming into the car;
I had landed in the river.
Good news-I am sinking but not yet under water.
Bad news- The water starts to come in faster and faster.
Bad news- The water keeps coming in the car. It is sinking.
It is over my head.
I am drowning.
Bad news- I hold my breath for 30 seconds and decide that I will die here.
I regret that it has to be in the mud and silt of the river. Undignified. I take a deep breath ready to go.
Good news, The car suddenly bobs to the surface from an air bubble
inside just as I take that breath.
Bad news-I look around and notice that the car is sinking again
this time even faster.
Bad news- I look around to try to open a door. But the door won't open.
Good news- I hear voices above. Someone saw me go in.
Bad news- The water is rising so fast I am sure they won't get me in time.
Bad news- I bang on the wind shield but it does not break
Good news- Someone from the outside breaks the wind shield and asks
if I can get out.
Bad news- I drag myself out over the cut glass-
blood in the water, gasoline and mud.,
Good news-Outside, there are men with a floating flat board and they float me to the shore.
Bad news-They ask me who is President and what is today's date.
And they are my rescuers, I think, and don't know this stuff?
Good news- The helicopter air-lifts me to the hospital with broken ribs, eye
smashed, blood everywhere.
Good news- I recover and can't get a cigarette and thereafter quit for good
as a way of thanking God that I lived.
Bad news- Broken ribs lead to pleurisy and later pneumonia.
Good news- I recover.
Good news-People at work give me a snorkel for my birthday; lol.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Postman
My eyes are ticking towards door
I am restless and rolling on floor
I have spent sleepless night
So much to loose without any fight
In olden days, the postman was prime figure
We will run towards him for making it sure
The letter must be delivered in our hand
Else it would be love failure with tragic end
She had promised me to write in return
I had seen in her eyes clear positive turn
She was very much willing and eager
I too felt the same and became anxious either
I heard the footsteps of old man with post bag
He was inching forward by wearing the postman’s tag
He was addressed as postman uncle
Very honored figure and known in circle
He is fortune teller for all
Good smile comes at letters arrival
No one ignores this gentleman but always welcome
As he is the medium for all good or bad things to come
He is the only one man in entire village
Known as calm person having come off with the age
Has spent entire life and ably managed
You can depict him as most wanted man on page
There may be many more waiting for good news
Some may be very eager to receive the dues
Some may be waiting for the quick reviews
As a whole he wanted by all and not by few
I still remember his mild smile
He had brought a letter which had traveled from miles
It carried my soul mate’s sentiments
How happy was I when received with those comments?
Even if I have to pay any special homage
I shall do it for him and inscribe as sage
No one can deliver the happiness and smile
As he does it for society and village as well
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Fortunate Son
Some folks are born made to wave the flag
Ooh, theyre red, white and blue
And when the band plays hail to the chief
They point the cannon right at you
It aint me, it aint me
I aint no senators son
It aint me, it aint me
I aint no fortunate son
Some folks are born silver spoon in hand
Lord they dont help themselves
But when the taxman comes to the door
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale
It aint me, it aint me
I aint no millionaires son
It aint me, it aint me
I aint no fortunate son
Some folks inherit star spangled eyes
Ooh, they send you down to war
And when you ask them how much should we give ?
They only answer more! more! more!
It aint me, it aint me
I aint no militarys son
It aint me, it aint me
I aint no fortunate son
It aint me, it aint me
I aint no fortunate one, no no
It aint me, it aint me
I aint no fortunate son
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fortunate Son
Some folks are born made to wave the flag,
Ooh, theyre red, white and blue.
And when the band plays hail to the chief,
Ooh, they point the cannon at you, lord,
It aint me, it aint me, I aint no senators son, son.
It aint me, it aint me; I aint no fortunate one, no,
Yeah!
Some folks are born silver spoon in hand,
Lord, dont they help themselves, oh.
But when the taxman comes to the door,
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yes,
It aint me, it aint me, I aint no millionaires son, no.
It aint me, it aint me; I aint no fortunate one, no.
Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,
Ooh, they send you down to war, lord,
And when you ask them, how much should we give?
Ooh, they only answer more! more! more! yoh,
It aint me, it aint me, I aint no military son, son.
It aint me, it aint me; I aint no fortunate one, one.
It aint me, it aint me, I aint no fortunate one, no no no,
It aint me, it aint me, I aint no fortunate son, no no no,
song performed by by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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