An Arabic Woman & The English Countryside
I am neither a Celtic,
Who lived in ancient Britain,
Nor am I an Arian,
Or a Normandy whose ancestors
Ruled England for a while,
And the blood in my veins
Do not go back
To the Germanic tribes
Who invaded England,
And mingled with the Celtic
In the savage old time.
Nor am I an Immigrant of any kind,
I do not belong
Either to the patient Indian men,
Nor to the Pakistani
Whose fathers helped in
Paving roads for the underground
That connects the lanes of London,
I did not study or lived there
Except in the summer time.
Yet loving the English meadows
Larks and nightingales
And the other birds
That marvellously garnish
springs, rivers,
Woods and lakes,
Birds that happily fly
In its semi blue sky,
Runs like blood
In my Arabic
Passionate veins;
I am an Arab who adores
And can't live without sunshine;
Whose skin is tinted by the golden
Heat of the glorious sun
Just like the sand of the spreading
Desert of the Holy land,
Who lived under the clear sky
With its glaring moon
And twinkling stars,
I adore the sunset
By the seaside
I love the crystal clear waves
Of the Red Sea
And its true blue shade,
I am madly in love with the smell
Of Makkah’s rain when
It quenches the thirst
Of the dry soil,
Yet Wonder I
Am I in love with England,
And Why?
Why do the English hill,
The Irish rivers and springs
The Scottish countryside
Have on my spirit a splendid effect,
Some fools accuse the English
To be snobbish and racists,
But I did not see these qualities
In the majority I knew;
Look closely
At London’s million persons
Demonstration against the latest war,
And the recent Edinburgh March
You can see
What I mean;
Though East and West
Did not communicate well,
Did not go well
From ancient to modern time,
In my heart they are nicely combined
For hearts of true poets
Do not differentiate between mankind.
poem by Nadia Abduljabbar
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Out Of The Fulness Of The Heart The Mouth Speaketh
In answer to those who have said that English Poets
give no personal love to their country.
ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations,
Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong,
Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations?
Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song?
O dear fields of my country, grass growing green, glowing golden,
Green in the patience of winter, gold in the pageant of spring,
Oaks and young larches awaking, wind-flowers and violets blowing,
What, if God sets us to singing, what save you shall we sing?
Who but our England is fair through the veil of her poets' praises,
What but the pastoral face, the fruitful, beautiful breast?
Are not your poets' meadows starred with the English daisies?
Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an English nest?
Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the fern-brake in shadow,
Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the marsh and the mere,
Are they not English woods, dear English marshland and meadow?
Have not your poets loved you? England, are you not dear?
Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom,
Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam,
Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom,
Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home.
Lanes that are white with hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver,
Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free,
Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river,
Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be?
Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way,
Coign of your foam-white cliffs or swirl of your grass-green waves,
Leaf of your peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway,
But in our hearts is sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves?
Is not each bough in your orchards, each cloud in the skies above you,
Is not each byre or homestead, furrow or farm or fold,
Dear as the last dear drops of the blood in the hearts that love you,
Filling those hearts till the love is more than the heart can hold?
Therefore the song breaks forth from the depths of the hidden fountain
Singing your least frail flower, your raiment of seas and skies,
Singing your pasture and cornfield, fen and valley and mountain,
England, desire of my heart, England, delight of mine eyes!
Take my song too, my country: many a son and debtor
Pays you in praise and homage out of your gifts' full store;
Life of my life, my England, many will praise you better,
None, by the God that made you, ever can love you more!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
poem by Rupert Brooke
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V. The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1915)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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1914 V: The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
poem by Rupert Brooke
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Oh England My Lionheart
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Im in your garden, fading fast in your arms.
The soldiers soften, the war is over.
The air raid shelters are blooming clover.
Flapping umbrellas fill the lanes--
My london bridge in rain again.
Oh! england, my lionheart!
Peter pan steals the kids in kensington park.
You read me shakespeare on the rolling thames--
That old river poet that never, ever ends.
Our thumping hearts hold the ravens in,
And keep the tower from tumbling.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
Oh! england, my lionheart!
Dropped from my black spitfire to my funeral barge.
Give me one kiss in apple-blossom.
Give me one wish, and Id be wassailing
In the orchard, my english rose,
Or with my shepherd, wholl bring me home.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I lived in England to learn English. When I went to England for the first time, it was like being on the Moon. I had no friends, I couldn't speak the language. I was very isolated.
quote by Jean Alesi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who Am I? !
Who am I? !
A fighter,
A survivor,
Or a crazy writer,
Or all,
Who am I?
Eastern or Western,
Or both;
I can’t live long
Away from Makkah,
And its marvellous Grand Mosque
And enchanting desert,
Yet in the same time
I long for the English
And all the Western countryside
I love the grand Arabic language,
Yet I sometimes, dream in English,
East and West are combined
In my heart and mind,
Both carry my thoughts,
Just like red and blue veins
That carry the human vital fluid,
In the East, People complain;
They claim I am too Western;
Too liberal and free for them,
In the West,
They say:
I am religious
In my own very special
And rather peculiar way,
Edward Said was “out of place”,
For he was forced
To leave his land,
I am in and out of place
On every terra firma,
Am I misfit? !
My friend: Huda
Calls me “a feminist”,
If I am so then
I am a Muslim one,
For I do not hate men;
Though they are sometimes
A HEADACHE.
Yet I am sure
I hate customs
That wear the mask
Of religion to oppress women,
All I know is that
I love all of God’s grounds,
Roses and cats;
All of his creatures,
Including Man,
I want the best
For every body,
Though I passed
Through many a difficulty,
My life was,
And still is:
A series of hardships;
A kind of impossible ordeals,
Yet I managed,
With the help of Divinity,
To turn every
Loss to gain;
My pain becomes less
With the increased number
Of TESTS;
My personality evolves
STRONGER.
All of this makes
My question a quest,
And it is a never ceasing
Fire that no one can quench:
Am I a fighter,
A survivor,
Or just a crazy poetess
And writer.
12 Nov.2005
poem by Nadia Abduljabbar
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Pro Rege Nostro
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice again
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England: --
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song of your bugles blown, England --
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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What Have I Done For You
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England -
'To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Goodbye London
GOODBYE LONDON
I hear the whispers of London in my ears,
London! London! is how the birds sing,
oh, i love the english bus ride and the ancient buildings,
where the trees and the animals can stop dancing,
If men where horses, hopes will vanish in wheelchair,
Oh, I feel like enjoying in the queens empire of riches,
where the love the love of english beer won't stop flowing in my lips,
I know why I still dreams of cheese and the humpty-dumpty children will fly like wizards,
Oh, I remember the window of gossips of the old women,
I know why the london bridge wears a crown,
Oh, I never want to say goodbye to the land of the colonies,
where the beauty of flowers can stop milking,
where the voice of flute can stop roaring into the air,
where everyones fall in love with the empires,
And if you're searching for the crystal ball of snow,
London is where honey 's clock keep alarming,
Goodbye london of the Amazones of green light.
Yomi-Habib.
poem by Abayomi Habib
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Cry Freedom
I live in a world of mist words
cause beauty music therein lives
in ancient Celtic ancestry of mindsong
history runs within fibre of being
across earth runs folklore of centuries
soul aches for emerald siren shores
ancient calling of Celtic blood origins
Roman legions English arrogance's
could never defeat cry freedom within
tyrant defiant knee bends defeated not
injustice world domination defeats not
centuries enduring is cry freedom within
does not blood of warrior bard echo
haunting down resolute centuries
cry freedom defiant Celtic peoples
freedom is heritage birthright echo
poem by Terence George Craddock
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London Holds My Heart
I'd kill to see the lights of London
Out of the windows of my room
Or to gaze upon the streets of Cairo
And farther out all of the pharaohs' tombs
I'd love to see the Eiffel Tower
And the Louvre's pieces of art
But there is only one city I could stay in
For only London holds my heart
To gaze across Scottish meadows
And bask in the light of an Irish moon
To hear the street musicians of Rome
Doling out their classic tunes
I want to fall asleep at sunset
In the snug bed of an Israel inn
And sip the finest of Greek wines
And lay with Arabian silks caressing my skin
How it would be to walk the deserts of Mecca
Or bathe in the Nile river for a few nights
To wander the vast jungles of Africa
And see the exotic birds take flight
What I wouldn't give to run up the stairs of old cathedrals
In ancient cities made up of ancient art
Though there is only one city I can ever belong to
London Holds My Heart
poem by Tatianna Rei Moonshadow
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England, My England
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:--
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There 's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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In A Dark Wood Wandering
The moans and screams of dying men;
a scene and sound surreal.
The flower of French Chivalry
cut down by English steel.
English Harry has won this day
on this wet and muddy ground.
So many high born men laid low,
but I am still around.
It was my blood that ransomed me
when others’ blood was shed.
I am the Duke of Orleans.
A poet, some have said.
In the aftermath of battle;
wounded, left to bleed.
Sir Richard Waller found me
and attended to my needs.
So today I am his prisoner,
we’ll become friends in time.
Now I am bound for England
as a “guest” of the English crown.
We’d had the numbers and the strength
to bring proud Henry down.
His Yeoman archers turned the tide
on this awful muddy ground.
Beset by woods on either flank
No room to strike or move.
It was our Constables’ worst mistake
and the last, as time would prove
Like a dark and deadly rain they fell
out of a clear blue sky.
Here on the field of Agincourt
where Princes came to die.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Ripoff
I don't wanna be no traitor to the cause
But England is a luxury - not many can afford
There's people going under - it's getting out of hand
Whatever happened to our - our green and pleasant land?
It turned into a wilderness; it turned into a third world country
Most people ain't getting what they pay for
Some people gettin' more than they should be
I know, I know - I'm an alien - but what are you gonna do
I wanna live in England - but it gets to you
It gets to you, it gets to you, it gets to you
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
I really don't know why - England wants to rip off you
England wants to rip off you, England wants to rip off you
What do you do when you find out?
Where do you go if you leave?
There's no place like home - that's what they say
And that's what you always believed
Someday you might win the Lottery
Someday you might win the Pools
But that's all you've got - that's all you've got
- to live for, to live for
That's all you've got - that's all you've got -
to live for, to live for (yeah)
To be or not to be - that's the question
Oh what's it gonna be?
I'd love to live in England - but it gets to me
it gets to me, it gets to me, yeah it gets to me
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
I really don't know why - England wants to rip off you
England wants to rip off you, England wants to rip off you
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
Oh I really don't know why - England wants to rip off
England wants to rip off , England wants to rip o
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gippsland Hills Are Greener
The Powlett river downland go whispering towards the sea
And butcherbird is piping on sunlit wattle tree
And silver gulls are calling along the Gippsland shore
I love you my dear Country each day i love you more.
The English Land is greener some have been known to say
And English birds sing sweetly in leafy woods of may
But Gippsland hills are greener the greenest i have seen
And Aussie bird sing sweetly where woods are evergreen.
I've been to Indonesia and I've visited Japan
And I've had cake and coffee with wealthy Asian man
With wealthy men of London i have been out to tea
But bold men of Australia appeal far more to me.
I work for London company for influential co
And all my friends are wealthy and wealthy men i know
I once was middle class girl from Korumburra Town
And dad worked for demolition co knocking old buildings down
The English fields are greener the English proudly say
But I've lived in a greener Land thousands of miles away
Where Powlett river downland goes whispering towards the sea
And butcherbird is piping on sunlit wattle tree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Land of Fairy Tales
Together they wandered hand in hand
Across the beauty of the land
Until they saw the golden sand
From England's hills and vales.
And there together they would lie
unnoticed by the passer-by
Whispering love, sweet and shy
Just like in fairy tales.
And sometimes in the evening hue
They'd sail the sea of silvery blue,
In those days when love was true
On England's shores and dales.
Before their eyes, a magic sight
As North East stars lit up the night
On a coast of sheer delight
Oh 'Land of fairy tales'.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Emit Remmis
The california animal is a bear
Angeleo but the devil mat care
Summer time to talk to and swear
Later maybe we could share some air
Ill take to you the movies there
We could walk through Leicester Square
What could be wetter then
An English girl American man
London in the summer time
Call me now use the satellite
London in the summer time
Cuss me out and itll feel all right
Hesitate but dont refuse
The choice is yours but you said choose
The look she used was green and sharp
Stabbed that boy all in his heart
Come what may the cosmos will
Take me up and down on Primirose Hill
What could be wetter then
An English girl American man
London in the summer time
Call me now use the satellite
London in the summer time
Cuss me out and itll feel all right
Cuss me out and itll feel all right
Its all right now
Call me now use the satellite
Its all right
Its all right
Down and out and itll sound all right
Its all right now
Its all right
The California flower is a poppy child
Felony sends me all the gold in your smile
Drift away from anyone you can
Nothing ever goes according to plan
Though I know that every river bends
What could be wetter then
An English girl American man
London in the summer time
Call me now use the satellite
London in the summer time
Cuss me out and itll feel all right
song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Drums of Battersea
They can’t hear in West o’ London, where the worst dine with the best—
Deaf to all save lies and laughter, they can’t hear in London West—
Tailored brutes and splendid harlots, and the parasites that be—
They can’t hear the warning thunder of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Misery—
Beating from the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
Where the hearses hurry ever, and where man lives like a beast,
They can feel the war-drums beating—men of Hell! and London East.
And the far-off foreign farmers, fighting fiercely to be free,
Found new courage in the echo of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Beating for the free—
Beating on the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
And the drummers! Ah! the drummers!—stern and haggard men are those
Standing grimly at their meetings; and their washed and mended clothes
Speak of worn-out wives behind them and of grinding poverty—
But the English of the English beat the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of agony—
The big bruised heart of England’s in the Drums of Battersea.
Where in fields slave Englishwomen, Oh! the sound of drums is there:
I have heard it in the laughter of the nights of Leicester Square—
Sailing southward with the summer, London but a dream to me,
Still I feel the distant thunder of the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Liberty—
Rolling round the English world—the Drums of Battersea.
Oh! I heard them in the Queen’s Hall—aye! and London heard that night—
While we formed up round the leaders while they struck one blow for right!
And the old strength, that old fire, that I thought was dead in me,
Blazed up fiercely at the beating of the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
They beat for victory—
When above the roar of Jingoes rolled the Drums of Battersea.
And where’er my feet may wander, and howe’er I lay my head,
I shall hear them while I’m dreaming—I shall hear them when I’m dead!
For they beat for men and women, beat for Christ, and you and me:
There is hope and there is terror in the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of destiny—
There’s hope!—there’s hope for England in the Drums of Battersea.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Negro Speaks of Rivers
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
poem by Langston Hughes
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